


working vacation

by trash_rendar



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Jedi Appreciation (Star Wars), Jedi Business, M/M, Pre-Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Rarepair, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Undercover Missions, Undercover as a Couple, eventual canon-typical action, jedi dorks falling for each other, references to legends material, resort shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24166609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_rendar/pseuds/trash_rendar
Summary: Decades before the Clone Wars, masters Plo Koon and Kit Fisto are dispatched to the ocean world of Glee Anselm to assist with a trade dispute. But with the Republic keeping them at arm's length, the Jedi seemingly have a free week to themselves on a tropical paradise. They'll discover that not all is as it seems, though - least of all between themselves.
Relationships: Kit Fisto/Plo Koon
Comments: 111
Kudos: 145
Collections: Jedi Journals





	1. in-flight

**Author's Note:**

> hello there! everything star wars is kind of bleak and depressing right now so i'm treating myself with some sappy beach romance :B please enjoy!
> 
> kudos & comments water my crops!

Plo Koon sits in the hold of a passenger freighter, wearing civilian clothes and nursing a cup of distilled water. He doesn’t like the clothes – too loud, tacky, tourist-y - and he doesn’t particularly care for the water, either, though he’s all too aware it’s likely the only non-alcoholic potable on this transport. If he’s being perfectly honest with himself, he doesn’t care for this assignment, either – but the Jedi are, in all things, at the service of the Republic, and the Diplomatic Corps had need of them.

 _A disagreement, there has been, between the Mon Calamari and the Trade Federation_ , Grand Master Yoda told him privately in the chambers of the Council of Reconciliation. _On the planet of Glee Anselm, a weeklong summit shall be held; a mediator, the Republic is dispatching, to arbitrate the dispute. Requested, the presence of the Jedi has been._

 _I shall prepare myself for service immediately, Master Yoda_ , Plo had replied.

Yoda had raised a three-fingered hand. _Another wrinkle, there is. The official in charge of mediating this dispute believes the presence of the Jedi, destabilizing may be. “An environment of compromise, we must cultivate.” Undercover, you will be sent, and billeted at a local resort._

At the time, Plo had cocked his head, confusion evident even through his antiox apparatus. _Undercover, Master?,_ he’d asked. _Undercover as…?_

 _A tourist, yes._ Yoda had chortled, a glint of bemusement in his weathered troll’s eyes. _What else?_ Then he’d cackled.

A tourist. Naturally. What was more inconspicuous than a Kel Dor vacationing on the Nautolan homeworld?

In the present, Plo rests his head against the back of his seat, gazing out at the sea of stars beyond the transparisteel viewport at his side. The din of passengers clamoring for an inflight meal, and of cook droids scrambling to meet the demand, bounces off the bulkheads and reverberates among the support beams until it turns inward upon itself, the cacophony only matched by the amount of new noise being generated seemingly endlessly in realtime. Behind his goggles, his eyelids droop closed.

Would it have been so difficult for the diplomatic service to spare them a bunk on their cruiser?

“You look awful, Master Plo,” a deep, rich voice helpfully informs him. “Have you been keeping up your meditation?”

“I’m sorry to report that the exercises don’t really help at this range,” he replies, inwardly congratulating himself for concealing how weary he truly felt. “We shall have to make a formal note to the Council.”

Kit Fisto laughs as he slides into the seat across from him. “I would think after the amount of time you’ve spent cooped in the Temple, you’d be eager to be out among the people again.”

Plo considers his drink as he in turn considers his reply. In truth, he’s unfamiliar with his partner for this mission, having only interacted with him a handful of times prior. He’s aware Kit has been a Jedi Knight for some time, and only newly-minted as a Master, much like himself – this reflects well enough on his skill with the Force. But of the man personally, he knew precious little.

He was extroverted, Plo knew – he could tell just by looking at him. He had large, dark eyes, always upturned; his mouth seemed set in a permanent smile. More than once on this journey he’d seen him chatting with clusters of other passengers, with whom he always seemed to get along, always seemed to be laughing. His disguise, too, seemed tailored to communicate his gregarious personality; he wore his head-tails in a loose imitation of a pony-tail, letting them hang to his waist down the back of a short-sleeved yellow tourist’s shirt featuring a tropical motif of pleasure gliders over the ocean that was somehow even louder than the room.

Plo was more conservative than him in almost every way – in dress, in speech, in manner. They seemed an odd pair – incompatible, even. He wondered privately what the Council had been thinking when they had chosen their detachment for this mission.

Though it certainly wasn’t Kit Fisto’s presence he was questioning.

“Eager to serve, perhaps. But I had selfishly hoped that I might serve from a distance.”

Kit shakes his head as he sips from a cup of ardees that seems (Plo hopes) to be mostly waterdown. “A nice thought, but I fear neither duty nor the Force agree,” he replies. “It’s not the Jedi way to remain safe at home for the rest of our lives, no?”

“You never struck me as much of a homebody, Master Fisto.”

“Me? No, not particularly – I rather enjoy being on the move. But a few more assignments like this couldn’t hurt.” Kit smiles, and winks.

Plo strangely finds his informal manner charming. “I wouldn’t be so cavalier if I were you,” he says, to banish that stray thought. “We are here at the request of the Republic. This isn’t a vacation.”

“If the negotiators can keep the blasters off the bargaining table, it may as well be.” Kit brings up one of his legs to rest his heel on the edge of the small table between them and gives Plo a wry smirk. “And forgive me for saying so, but out of all the people on this barge, you seem the most in need of some time to yourself.”

“Despite appearances,” Plo stresses, “we are on duty. And I will be ready if our presence should be needed.”

“As will I, Master. But obsessing over the possibility of a diplomatic breakdown won’t help anyone. Be optimistic!”

“I am _cautiously_ optimistic,” Plo stresses. “Hoping for the best, expecting the worst.”

Kit gestures positively with his drink. “Good! Now start from there – and just _relax_.”

There’s a distant rumble from beyond the bulkhead. Both of them instinctively turn to watch as, in a neighboring spacelane, a Consular cruiser in bold diplomatic red soars past the passenger ship moving at a comparative putter, leaving them quickly behind. The smooth, pale curve of Glee Anselm’s atmosphere is just coming into view at the edge of the pane, where Plo’s elbow rests against the glass.

“That’ll be the mediators,” Kit observes, taking another sip. “I bet they’re looking forward to this ‘working vacation’ as much as we are.”

“Are you this flippant about all your excursions, Master Fisto?”

The Nautolan gives Plo an inscrutable look; an emotion he can’t quite place pulls at the corner of Kit’s lips. “Only the interesting ones,” he replies smoothly.

He leans a little closer to the viewport, leans further into the pale blue starlight, to get a better angle of the retreating cruiser. He’s wearing the top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned, Plo notices suddenly as he moves. Fabric shifts with the lean; gliders flutter as the top of the collar pulls open wider. There can’t possibly be a practical reason for exposing that much of the collarbone and chest, Plo figures, except to sell the fiction of a harmless, outgoing vacationer – though if the muscle tone hinted at by what was exposed was anything to go by, he was going to fit right in among the beachgoers and partiers surely awaiting them on the planet.

He was staring, Plo realized. He should probably stop doing that. To distract himself, he sips water.

“We’ll probably be coming up on the spaceport shortly,” Kit observes as he settles back in his seat. “Last chance to work on your disguise.”

Plo sets down his cup, tenting his fingers in front of him. “I fail to see what needs improved. I took pains to ensure I would be appropriately attired.”

“It’s not the clothes, it’s how you wear them. You’re practically pressed into that shirt, Master Plo, and I’m a little surprised you’re not choking on that collar.”

“And your advice would be…?”

“Lose the top buttons. At least _look_ like you’re relaxing a little.”

Plo pauses. Then, reluctantly, he fiddles with his collar. The fasteners are tricky – not really designed for fingertips thicker than a near-Human’s; they dodge and twist out of the clutch of his long nails with frustrating ease. Pushing them back through the slit is another matter entirely. He didn’t fumble with them this much getting the shirt on, he’s sure.

His audience watches with a smirk. “Most impressive,” he teases gently.

“If you’d like to help,” Plo grunts – and the words die in his throat as he tilts his chin back. Kit’s hands appear almost in the blink of an eye, maneuvering deftly around his own and adroitly undoing the first troublesome button. Plo’s hands hover uselessly in the air beside them as the Nautolan handles the next; he finally allows them to fall onto the armrest by the time Kit defeats the third. They’re very smooth, he notices – not at all like the leathery hide on his own – and if he looks between their digits, he can barely make out the furled aquatic membrane Nautolans possessed to assist in swimming.

“There we are,” Kit hums. He pulls the plackets slightly ajar, so the white undershirt beneath the striped polo top can peek out. “Much more comfortable, hm?”

“You have my thanks,” Plo says, finding his mouth oddly dry. “If my performance today has been any indication, I am afraid I shall be of little help on this retreat after all.”

“Come now, Master Plo, we have the whole week ahead of us.” The Nautolan rests a hand on the shoulder of the Kel Dor and flashes a dazzling smile. “Don’t let a little frustration now cloud your mind, hm?”

“Yes, of course. You’re right. Whatever happens in the next few days, I will remain… cautiously optimistic.”

“That’s the spirit.” Kit lifts his ardees out over the table; their glasses meet with an audible clink, even in the crowded atmosphere. “Here’s to the week ahead!”

“And to a successful mediation,” Plo adds.

“And to us!” Kit rejoins jubilantly, and quaffs the remainder in his glass.

“Hm… Yes, I suppose. To us.”

The transport jostles as it entered the upper atmosphere. Plo cradles his drink to keep it from spilling. Despite Kit's efforts, he can't quite shake the feeling that this... 'working vacation'... is going to take a turn for the unexpected.


	2. check-in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2 - hope you enjoy! kudos & comments greatly appreciated!

Perhaps the only uniform thing about a crowd of galactic tourists was the oppressive manifestation of their presence; they had all but come to blows for the right to first crowd into the star-bus like canned Naboo sardines, and now they crowd out of the ship with the grace and discipline of a nerf stampede. It’s not very Jedi-like of him, but Kit Fisto allows himself to feel a twinge of bemusement as he watches them shove themselves and each other out of the freighter’s hold.

“All this unpleasantness over who’ll be the first to hit the beach,” he remarks as his party finally finds enough clearance to disembark.

“Clearly the troubles of the average citizen are much different than our own,” Plo replies evenly, stepping through the hatch.

It’s been a lifetime since Kit last set foot on Glee Anselm. The warming rays of the sun kiss his skin as he steps outside, and the salty tang of the ocean air washes over him like a wave on the tide; he closes his eyes and breathes in deep, savoring the atmosphere of his homeworld. He already feels more at ease.

Beside him, he notices Plo react somewhat differently, raising a hand to shield against the sun and hiking the carry strap of his luggage a little higher on one shoulder. Kel Dor are sturdy creatures, Kit remembers, built to withstand the violent weather patterns of their own homeworld; he can’t quite remember if their leathery skin can resist sunburn. They’re stocked for skin protection, he knows, but they should probably requisition some proper headwear for the occasion just to be safe.

It occurs to him as they walk down the gantry to the starport that he actually doesn’t know that much about his new partner. He’d done his due diligence, read Plo Koon’s dossier in advance of their assignment, but had honestly found it pretty dry – overlong on accomplishments and far too short on individual personality. It was obvious just from the reading that Plo was patient, diligent, and disciplined – but the same could really be said of any Jedi Master. Except, perhaps, one of their newest.

He would never turn down an opportunity to serve the Republic – but really, what did Kit Fisto have to offer on this particular excursion? He was all too aware of his own tendencies for impulsive action and, shall we say, un-Jedi-like behavior. It puzzled him that he was being paired with such a stolid presence whose negotiating experience far outstripped his own – Master Tholme would have been far more suited to this deployment, or Master Mundi. It wouldn’t have even been that out of place if they had – plenty of sapient species vacationed on Glee Anselm. And as far as keeping a low profile went, Kit had a natural tendency to stick out like a white dwarf.

Surely there was an aspect to Master Yoda’s decision he wasn’t seeing – but he certainly wasn’t finding it, either.

“Something on your mind, my friend?”

“Just wondering if the Council foresaw a deep-sea fishing exercise in this summit’s future.”

Plo hums. Through his mask, the sound is more of a deep, synth-laced rumble, but Kit finds it tonally pleasing all the same. “I imagine you must be looking forward to returning to these waters.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Kit replies with a laugh.

“Then we should probably make sure we’re on the hovertram to the resort before it departs. It would be a shame if we were late to our check-in – and it would throw our _timetable_ off-schedule.” As far as passive-aggressive suggestions go, this one rates a gentle push, but Kit needs no reminder. The Republic diplomats in charge are probably expecting to hear from them – probably even right now.

“All in good time, my friend. For now, enjoy your first taste of Glee Anselm – we’ll be lucky if we ever find cause to come here again.”

* * *

Later, as they’re walking into the hotel lobby, Kit leans into Plo’s ear and whispers, “Remind me again what exactly the situation is between the Mon Cal and the Trade Federation?”

“Mon Calamari litigators are protesting that the Federation is engaging in a form of tax fraud,” Plo explains, “by engaging in dutyfree trade with their Quarren neighbors. In turn, the Trade Federation is claiming that according to current starcharts, the orbit of the planet Dac comes to partially inhabit the sector’s local Free Trade Zone, where such transactions are Republic-sanctioned and legal.”

“And by ‘partially’, I imagine only on the hemisphere where the Quarren live.”

“Yes.” There’s a pause. “Forgive me, Master Fisto, but… shouldn’t you know this already? The situation was summarized in the brief the Republic offered us.”

“I… regretfully, didn’t have time to read most of my briefing documents.”

Plo can’t express much through his antiox apparatus, but Kit has picked up on his body language enough to know when he’s incredulous; one of his brows quirks a hair higher than the other, and the hide around the eyepieces of his goggles crinkles, as if squinting or grinning. He’s not sure why, but he finds that crinkle charming.

“You didn’t read the briefing,” Plo echoes.

Kit shrugs innocently. “I prefer to find my own facts on the ground.”

Another rumble. “And you’ll come to a greater understanding of economic legalism by lounging by the sea, I take it.”

“It works for Federation litigators – I’m sure we’ll see them doing the same thing between meetings.”

“Letting their credits make their arguments for them, no doubt.”

They could debate the failings of the legal system later – the check-in counter awaits. The yellow and white logo of the Sabilon By The Sea resort complex dominates the wall behind it, and the photogenic Twi’lek standing at the computer terminal before them gives the Jedi a carefully rehearsed smile as they approach before rattling off the usual welcome speech. Kit senses that they’re catching her at the end of her shift, after what must have been a parade of difficult and draining interactions; he admires her professionalism as she asks for their names.

“Plo and Kit Ashlan,” he says with an easygoing grin. “Checking in.”

“Happy to have you here, sirs.” She types at the screen for a moment. “Reservation for a couple’s suite, fourth floor?”

“That sounds about right,” Kit replies. Beside him, he senses a spike of emotion from Plo that feels very much like surprise; he’s a little impressed that the receptionist isn’t able to notice.

“Here are your keycards, sirs.” She sets them down on the countertop and pushes them over to their side, gracing them with one last smile. “We hope you enjoy your stay!”

“We will, thank you. Every second of it.” He gives her a wink as they depart for the turbolifts.

The lifts are designed much like the rest of the resort’s forward-facing interior dressing – corporate-colored, inoffensively clean, and just homely enough for guests to begin to feel comfortable. They aren’t as large as the models installed in the Temple, unfortunately, so the Jedi find themselves squeezed a little too close for comfort as the doors swish closed.

“Did I hear that correctly?” Plo asks as the gentle climb upwards takes them. “Were we booked as a… couple?”

“Naturally.”

“A… joined couple?”

“Indeed. Joined for about a year, according to the cover story our friends at the diplomatic service provided for us. I assume this is satisfactory, for our purposes?”

“Of course.” Plo rolls his shoulders and lets his arms go limp, hands clasped before him. Kit glances sidelong at him, and notices the skin around his cheekbones is noticeably flush, though partially covered by the wings of his mask. “But oddly intimate, considering.”

“Nothing unusual about a couple going on holiday.”

“I meant for us - as Jedi.”

“Perhaps. But as far as cover stories go, it should be an easy sell.” He strokes idly at one of his headtails. “Does that make you… uncomfortable?”

“Not at all,” the Kel Dor says quickly. “I only wish I’d had more time to… get into character, as it were.”

“Perhaps you should have read your briefing papers,” Kit hums, and he’s _sure_ Plo gives him a dirty look.

* * *

Their suite is adequate for their purposes; the walls are hand-painted a powder blue descending into off-white, wavelike patterns woven into the brushwork. The blinds over the window filter the bright sun outside into thin rays which throw themselves recklessly into the room. The space is divided into several smaller rooms, all appropriately furnished – a communal living area, sleeping quarters, and refresher, with an external balcony for taking in the view of the coastline. Kit notes with some amusement that they’ve only been provided one bed.

The Diplomatic Corps, at least, had managed their end of the insertion already; in a duffel tucked under the bedframe they find most of their Jedi equipment, robes and all, smuggled on-planet as part of a Republic diplomatic pouch while the Jedi arrived separately. The heft of his lightsaber, and the gentle pulsing of the kyber crystals ensconced within, feels good in Kit’s hands; he imagines Plo Koon feels the same way with his weapon’s safe return.

“ _These_ should probably go into the room safe until they’re needed,” he remarks.

“Too obvious,” Plo counters. “Should our room ever be invaded, the safe would logically be the first place any thieves would look.”

“A fair point. Any other ideas?”

Plo takes possession of both hilts and carries them into the refresher. When he returns, they are missing. “A loose panel under the shower,” he explains, pulling his Jedi undertunic from the duffel. “The perfect size for our lightsabers. I noticed it when we first arrived.”

“Rumors of your wisdom were not unfounded.”

“I am pleased to have met expectations.”

Kit feels his comlink buzz suddenly from the pocket of his civilian disguise; he fishes it out and presses a button on its side. Aurebesh in tiny holographic print appears between its antennae, scrolling down between the fingertips cupping the communicator. “Textcomm update from the diplomats,” he summarizes. “Opening statements have ended; envoys are retiring for the day. Apparently the Trade Federation envoy is heading for the resort as well.”

“Interesting news. I assume they’ll send the minutes of the meeting to our datapads?”

“Goes without saying. What say we go down and size up this Federation litigator?”

Plo pauses in the middle of shedding his polo shirt; it’s stuck around his forearms, baring his carrot-colored shoulders to the coolness of the room. “Now?”

“The timing couldn’t be better for it,” Kit shrugs.

“Shouldn’t we wait for word from the diplomats?”

Kit smirks as he pulls a bottle of sunblock from his luggage case. “Like I said - I like to gather my facts on the ground.”


	3. poolside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I talk big game about sunburn prevention in this chapter but I ended up getting sunburnt while I was writing this, wump wump
> 
> anyway, enjoy!

The water here is refreshingly cool, and a startlingly clear blue – but heavily chlorinated. Most species would barely notice, but Nautolans are more sensitive to the purity of their water than some. It’s like a meal that in all other aspects is superb, but leaves an off taste in the mouth, one that clings and cloys for long after its welcome is worn out – except that in this case the odd taste clings to the whole body like a second skin.

Kit can’t help but grimace even as he knifes confidently through the pool. It’s not his ideal homecoming, to be sure – if anything, it makes him ache for the seas of his homeworld more, to be so close to them even as he paddles through this chemical-choked imitation water. Still, it feels good to finally be able to immerse himself in moisture once again, though his whole body waffles between relish and revulsion with every stroke. He has to keep reminding himself that it’s better than nothing.

Besides - he’s technically here on business.

His fingertips touch the far wall one last time, and he breaches the surface, pulling in a deep breath as he hauls the top of his body out of the water. He lets his chin rest on the backs of his forearms and hangs on the edge of the pool, as if momentarily recharging. He’s aware that more than a few vacationers crowding the lido have taken notice of him as he swam his laps, and are no doubt drinking in the sight of his lean, well-muscled back as he clings to the edge. He pays them little mind – he’s more concerned with one guest in particular, one who hasn’t been paying attention to the rabble around them.

Litigator Kay Cittra is a lean and sickly figure, and still wears her tapered Neimoidian cowl as she lounged in a deck chair far on the far edge of the lido. Kit must assume she’s roasting in the sun under her finely embroidered gown, but her mouth is closed in a contented line under the black tint of her eye-visor. There’s a pair of discarded sandals at the foot of her chair, and her hands are folded contently on her belly as a protocol droid attendant bobs a exotic fan over her. He studies her for a moment more before dropping back into the water, crossing back to the other side of the pool with a smooth backstroke.

He climbs all the way out this time, slinging his towel around his neck and padding, still dripping, back to where his partner awaits. Plo is seated on a deck chair, too, propped up at a higher angle so he can more properly support the flimsiback starport novel he’s thumbing through. In his current guise as a civilian, he’s traded his polo for a tropical-print button-up that rests loosely and lightly on his trunk and white capris with dark piping; the sun hat Kit requisitioned at a souvenir booth to spare his bald head matches his trousers nicely, and its brim drapes comfortably over the fleshy protuberances that sit like giant ears at the sides of his head. It may only be because he’s lost in his book, but Kit is pleased – relieved, even – to find that he finally seems to be relaxing.

“Enjoying your novel?” he asks as he perches on the edge of the deck chair.

Plo glances over the edge of the pages and gives a little shrug. “It’s agreeable enough,” he replies. Kit already knows from the cover illustration it’s some quasi-trashy romance pulp, so he cocks an eyebrow when Plo’s thick fingers reposition themselves to obfuscate the title and author. “Did you enjoy your swim?”

“It was… fine,” Kit sighs.

“Not quite the ocean waves, I take it?”

“No, not quite.”

“A pity Litigator Cittra’s tastes run counter to the usual beach crowd.”

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Kit huffs. “Who goes to Glee Anselm just to visit the pool?”

“The Trade Federation has… _difficulty_ appreciating the natural splendor of the worlds they visit,” Plo notes.

Kit hrrms noncommittally. Droplets trickle down his head-tails; Plo watches them slide over his shoulder blades and carve rivulets down his back, dripping onto the flexiplast bands of the chair body with a rhythmic patter, like rain. He isn’t quite sure why he finds the moment more engrossing than his book.

“You should consider toweling off, if the water here bothers you so much,” he murmurs.

Kit nods in agreement as he swipes the towel across his shoulders. He half-turns to Plo as he dabs moisture from his neck and chest; that strange, playful smirk has returned to his face. “Did you remember to put sunblock on before we left?”

“I didn’t think it necessary.”

“Not very wise of you,” the Nautolan tisks. He reaches into the tote bag at Plo’s side and fishes out the bottle. “We’d better get you covered before you start turning red. Or redder.”

“Really, Kit, I’ll be fine,” Plo insists even as he dog-ears the page he’s on. “Kel Dor are hardly delicate.”

“Sunburn is no laughing matter, dear.” Kit smirks as Plo’s brow furrows. “And it’s my responsibility to watch your back just as it’s yours to watch mine. Come on, shirt off – I’ll get your back.”

Plo huffs indignantly through his mask , but obediently unbuttons. “Fine. But don’t ‘dear’ me,” he mutters good-naturedly, shuffling onto the edge of the deck chair.

“Only sticking to our cover.” Kit’s voice is light, if muffled under the flatulent squirt of the sunscreen bottle.

He presses a dollop of the stuff into his partner’s nape, and Plo fights the urge to flinch. The lotion is cold out of the bottle, and just a bit greasy, but Kit’s hands are warm and smooth it as they spread it across his back; they run over his narrow shoulders with practiced ease, gently rubbing the cream into every nook and cranny of his leathery skin with their fingers and palms. The lotion is barely dry on his shoulders before Kit squeezes more into his fingertips and paints it down the space between his shoulder blades, along his spine. Plo instinctively shies from his touch; resolutely, the pads of Kit’s fingers follow him, pushing in deeper as his back arcs away.

“The Litigator seems a woman of few troubles,” Kit murmurs conversationally as he continues to rub.

“A-agreed.” Plo swallows and takes a slow breath. “I sensed very little concern for the outcome of the discussion.”

“I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. The Trade Federation often resolves legal troubles by stonewalling the opposition – that’s probably the case here.”

He hums, tenting his fingers between his knees before him. “Then I suppose it’s no surprise the Republic negotiator is similarly invested in the resolution of this dispute.”

“Is that the impression you have?”

“If their intent was to bring the Federation to the bargaining table, they would have requested our presence today, not put us into hiding for the duration. I expect the Republic’s unofficial stance is to wait out the matter until the inevitable financial settlement.”

Kit chuckles. “A fount of optimism if ever there was one.”

“Don’t misread me, Kit – I _am_ hoping for the best. But I expect the worst.”

High overhead pass aircars and space buses and the occasional cargo liner, coming close enough to the planet’s surface to be seen by the naked eye. Plo watches them navigate the skylanes as Kit’s hands massage more sunblock into his flanks, an oddly soothing sensation. One craft sticks out to him in particular – an unassuming tramp freighter, its ruddy red hull caked with rust, trundling gingerly on overtaxed engines to its berth at the neighboring starport. There’s a fleck of something yellow on its nose, just behind the slit of its cockpit canopy – a tangential detail, but something about it tugs at his mind with uncommon urgency.

He digs into his tote for his macrobinoculars and lifts them to his eyes, peering through them into the sky. He’s almost brought the craft totally into focus when the pads of Kit’s fingers ghost unexpectedly over his hips. He jumps, shivering, and by the time he brings the binocs back into position the cargo ship is long gone.

“Sorry about that,” Kit says apologetically. “Did I disturb your birdwatching?”

“No, I – ” Plo smooths down his hips where Kit had goosed them. “I just thought I saw something, that’s all.”

“What do you mean? Something suspicious?”

“No. At least, I don’t believe so. It was probably nothing anyway, I wouldn’t pay it any mind.”

Kit gives him an odd look, but shrugs noncommittally. He squirts some more sunblock into his hand.

“I can get my own chest,” Plo offers quickly. “You don’t need to go to any trouble.”

“So I figured,” Kit replies slowly, rubbing the lotion into his forearms. Then he adds, in a low voice, “Are you… feeling alright, Master Plo?”

“Of course, just – well. Perhaps a bit thirsty. It’s been rather sunny today, after all.”

“All the more reason for you to put on sunscreen, then.” Kit stands, stretching languidly and scratching the back of his head through his tails. “I’ll go see about getting us some refreshment. Keep an eye on the Litigator while I’m gone.” He tosses the bottle of sunblock lightly into Plo’s lap. “Make sure you get your arms and legs as well.”

“Naturally.”

“And perhaps when I’m back, you can lotion up my back as well, hm?”

Plo’s brows shoot up of their own accord. The question could well be perfectly innocent, but phrased in Kit’s rich voice it’s heavy with innuendo – and the wink the Nautolan shoots him as he trots off doesn’t help. He rubs a splat of sunblock into his stomach to take his mind off the heat rising to his cheeks.

But he can’t get that ship out of his head.

* * *

The rest of their stakeout, sunscreen shenanigans aside, is just as uneventful. As the sun dips low in the sky, the Jedi return to the resort complex to officially move into their suite.

No sooner have they finished when Plo is already stepping out again – he’s only going for a walk, he says, to clear his head before turning in for the night. Kit’s eyes are curious, but he keeps any questions to himself.

The vibrant orange of dying day fades to the dull purple of rising night. After some time exploring, Plo finally finds a suitable vantage point in a skyway walk between buildings from which to observe the nearby starport. He scans the landing field with his macrobinoculars, searching for that curious ruddy-hulled freighter; he finds it idling in one of the outer parking fields, the feet of its landing gear sinking into the sand. From the look of it, the crew are already preparing to cast off.

He finds the bow of the ship again and zooms in on its canopy. Embossed just behind the transparisteel pane is an epsilon embossed in yellow, with an overgrown tie and hunched horizontal bars, with a sharp, fishhook-like ascender on its top arm.

Plo knows this symbol all too well. It is the symbol of the Stark Commercial Combine.

He lowers the binocs and glares at the craft from afar. It lifts off from the sand and levitates gracelessly into the sky, cargo and destination unknown.


	4. continental breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos still greatly appreciated! ^^

When Plo returns from his evening stroll, Kit has already unpacked their belongings, and reminds him that the suite only has one bed intended for the both of them. Though he hides it well, this clearly flusters him about as much as Kit had hoped it would; when he gently suggests that he’ll be fine sleeping on the sofa, Plo only offers token protest before finally accepting. They each dress for the evening, bid each other a good night, and separate to their respective sleeping arrangements.

The sofa is almost decadently soft; the Nautolan Jedi sighs and sinks into the cushions almost to the point of drowning in synthleather as he reflects on the day. He shouldn’t take so much pleasure in teasing Plo, he thinks as his eyes grow heavy – they had to deal with each other for a week, after all, and going overboard to the point of unintentionally antagonizing him wasn’t going to help anyone. But then, it’s not as if he’s _trying_ to; he’d always been playful, after all, even as a youngling – and he’s only trying to get the reticent Kel Dor to open up. What better way to do that than a little good-natured ribbing?

Only… that isn’t quite the whole story, is it? There’s something else about Plo that he hasn’t felt before –a connection, a bond, of some kind. He’s forged relationships between his fellow Jedi before, naturally, but this is something different – something he can’t quite define. Something he can’t recall feeling before. It feels a bit like magnetism, he thinks – invisibly and inexorably pulling two objects together when left to themselves they might remain apart.

But why, and how? What is it about Plo Koon that draws Kit Fisto so quickly and conclusively into his orbit? His tired brain hacks through a drowsy haze in search of the answer; he drifts finally into sleep to the echo of a bassy voice, warm and deep, murmuring nothings in his ear.

* * *

When dawn comes streaming gently through the windowpanes, Kit cracks one eye open, then the other; then he stands, stretches lightly, and slides open the door to the balcony, allowing crisp morning air heavy with salt and the thunder of rolling waves to breeze into the suite. He remembers his late-night musing only vaguely, but still grapples with the question in the back of his mind as he pads to the bedroom.

Plo barely stirs when he cracks open the door and peeks in. He’s curled up on his side beneath the sheets, head on one pillow and arm wrapped around another, snoring quietly; through his breathing mask, the sound is rendered as a low, deep purring, akin to a loth-cat. His goggles lie on the bedside cabinet sitting by the head of the mattress, and his eyelids are closed fast, the eyes beneath them shifting occasionally. It’s strangely innocent, and perhaps even cute – the taciturn Jedi Master, sleeping as soundly as a creche youngling. Kit smiles and leaves him to his rest.

Left with time to himself before his partner awakens, Kit figures he ought to make the most of it, and so he pulls on a pair of slippers and departs the suite for the ground floor. There he ambles amid the other early risers to the buffet breakfast, picking out a plate of fresh tropical fruit and imported whole grains for himself and a specially-made Kel Dor nutrient shake for Plo. He notices clusters of attaches from the negotiating parties there as well, waiting in line or huddled around small tables – diplomatic aides in pressed uniforms, traditional Dac landwear, or plain dark Neimoidian peon’s robes. None of them seem willing to acknowledge the presence of the others, which seems to bode ill indeed for the summit’s chances of constructive resolution. Perhaps Plo had been on to something after all.

Regardless, Kit retreats to their room with breakfast in hand. Plo is awake when he returns, meditating quietly where he sits on the bedroom floor; when Kit pokes his head in, he rises easily from lotus position and bids him good morning, clasping his hands one over the other before him.

“I figured we could take breakfast in our room while we decide what to do with the day,” Kit says, offering Plo the bottle of nutritious slurry.

“Are we not going to await word from the Diplomatic Corps?”

“Of course we are – we’ll have our comlinks with us. Besides, we’re tourists, yes? We have to keep up appearances somehow.”

“True enough,” Plo nods as they move to the common room. “I suppose you have some ideas?”

“I was hoping we could finally hit the beach,” Kit admits. He sits back onto the couch, toeing off his slippers and resting his heels on the caf table before him; Plo settles in beside him, again sitting cross-legged atop the cushions. “I can hear the ocean calling to me.”

“With the door open, I’d be alarmed if you couldn’t,” Plo remarks, looking at the open balcony.

Kit nods – then blinks. He looks sidelong at Plo for a moment. “Did you just make a joke?”

Plo hums, “I’m not _totally_ beyond humor, Master Fisto,” and there’s a hint of a grin in his voice.

“You seemed beyond it yesterday. Perhaps I’m just starting to rub off on you.”

“Hm. Or perhaps I just needed a night in a proper bed, and not a hard cot in a cargo hold.”

“Both equally possible.” Kit takes a bite of toast and reaches out casually; at his urging, the remote control for the vidscreen opposite the caf table glides into his hand. “Let’s find out what’s on the HoloNet this morning,” he says, thumbing a button.

The vidscreen clicks on to a local news broadcast, a carefully-groomed Togruta anchor speaking in carefully measured tones to the viewing audience, paralleled against a portrait shot of a short-tailed Nautolan with aqua-blue skin dressed in a lavender wetsuit and gold reflective goggles. The beaming face in the picture belies the anchor’s stolid delivery _._

_“…Authorities are once again requesting any information related to the disappearance of Pit Paolo, celebrity athlete and entrant in the upcoming Pan-Republic Games. The famous swimmer and two-time champion of the Coralskipper Cup went missing during a training camp on the Sabiloni coast; Glee Anselm police suspect foul play may be involved. Paolo is the latest and most high-profile victim of what has become a string of unexplained disappearances that have occurred in the region since the beginning of this standard year…”_

“That seems highly concerning,” Plo murmurs.

Kit grunts in agreement. His brow is furrowed thoughtfully. “It seems we’re in the perfect area to investigate, should we find the time.”

“True. But that would involve shirking our current duties to the Republic.”

It’s not as if they want us here anyway, Kit wants to retort. “All I’m saying is if a lead comes our way, it should be followed up on,” he says instead.

“And we will,” Plo replies patiently. “But we should let the local authorities handle it until we find ourselves in a position to assist – if that time should come.”

Kit sighs. “You’re right, of course.”

“It bothers me greatly too, Kit. But the Jedi cannot be everywhere at once, as much as we want to.” A clawed hand comes to rest on the shoulder of Kit’s undertunic, squeezing gently. “If the Force wills it, we’ll help where we can, when we can.”

“Thank you, Plo.” Kit covers Plo’s hand with one of his own. “I’ll remember your wisdom.”

“It’d be wiser still if you changed the channel.” The Kel Dor maneuvers the spout of his bottle between the tusks at the end of his mask’s chin. “It does no one any good to keep consuming things that distress them.”

“Another good point,” Kit replies, thumbing the remote again.

The next channel features inspirational horns played over a glittering starfield. One by one images splash over the background – an attack group of Republic light assault cruisers, a fire team of armored soldiers, and finally, a tall man in officer’s dress; his face is stern, and severe to the point of seeming cruel.

_“Tonight on Heroes of the Republic: a look back in gratitude at the Outland Regions Security Force, from humble beginnings as the Seswenna Sector’s first line of defense to the largest attack force in modern Republic history. Profiling Governor-General Ranulph Tarkin of Eriadu, architect of the fleet and hero of the Stark Hyperspace War…”_

Plo makes a quiet noise that Kit is pretty sure indicates disgust. “’Hero’ is not the word I’d use,” he mutters.

“Touchy subject?”

“It’s… difficult to see Tarkin lionized by those who weren’t there to experience him firsthand.”

_“…From the fleet’s disaster in hyperspace and desperate defense on the surface, to their General’s heroic sacrifice in the challat-eater caves of Troiken…”_

This time, Plo nearly retches. “Thank you,” he says, when Kit turns off the viewscreen entirely.

“No problem. I hear holovision will rot your brain, anyway,” Kit adds with a smirk.

A nod, and a sigh. “Forgive me. The war is… touchy for me, as you said.” He rolls his shoulders, as if he’s struggling with no small amount of weight; for the first time, Kit is very lightly startled about how old he seems when the subject of the war comes up.

He rests his hand on Plo’s shoulder, just as he had done. “We don’t need to speak of it any more. …But if you ever want to, I’ll be here.”

Plo nods in wordless gratitude. They finish off their breakfasts in companionable silence.

“Well, we have the whole day before us,” Kit sighs as he sets his plate aside. “Any preferences as to how we spend it?”

Plo pauses – then shrugs. “Truth be told, I’m… somewhat out of my element,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “’Vacations’ are… something of a new experience for me. If it weren’t for the Republic requesting us be on hand, I wouldn’t know how to begin to spend a week here, let alone a day.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Kit smiles coyly. “I’ll lead and you’ll follow, then?”

“As good an arrangement as any, I suppose.”

“Okay, then.” The Nautolan seems to give the matter some thought. Then his eyes light up, and he grins. “I have an idea.”

“A good one, I hope?”

“ _Very_ good. Let’s go on a date.”


	5. first date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the thirst is strong with this one... enjoy!
> 
> comments, kudos, etc. etc.

“I’m not sure this is what the Council had in mind for us when they assigned us to this mission…”

“Nonsense! We’re only playing up our cover story, right?”

Plo cocks an eyebrow. Somehow, he senses that isn’t quite the whole story.

The Waterline bills itself as a restaurant/bar/gathering place, and it doesn’t take a Jedi to sense the success of that marketing strategy. Around lunchtime, the establishment crowds with couples, families, and drinking buddies in search of a quick snack before hitting the beach or a good spot to watch the nuna-ball semifinals. Plo and Kit pick through the tables and chairs and find a quiet corner booth towards the back of the building; the walls around them are choked with holophotos of smiling faces and vaguely tropical-themed bric-a-brac.

“You get comfortable here, and I’ll go put down our order,” Kit says, gesturing to the table. “Does anything on the menu strike your fancy?”

“Nothing that goes well through a breathing mask, unfortunately,” Plo sighs.

When he glances back at Kit, he looks curiously stricken. “Surely they must have something.”

“It’s nobody’s fault, Kit. Kel Dor are somewhat difficult to provide for outside Dorin. Besides, the hotel breakfast was quite filling,” Plo adds, placatingly. “I’ll just have water.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. Don’t worry about me.”

Kit purses his lips, but nods anyway. He turns to head for the cook droid behind the bar as Plo slides into the booth. Pleather squeaks obnoxiously underneath him as he settles gingerly into the seat; he rests his elbows on the table, hands clasped, and tries his best to be patient. Eventually, his mind begins to wander.

Kit Fisto is an odd duck, he decides. It’s a Nabooan turn of phrase he once overheard in the Great Temple, and though he’s never personally witnessed the animal for which it was coined, he thinks it applies. Beyond the eccentricities he’s already seen, the Nautolan seems to bounce between opposites with unusual ease – he is at once serious and jovial, impulsive yet thoughtful. And yet that charming smile never seems to fade from his face. A very unusual temperament, for a Jedi Master – perhaps those idiosyncrasies were why they had been paired together on Glee Anselm – with Plo Koon’s reserve and caution acting as a counterweight. He’d given the matter no small amount of thought over the past day and a half.

Truth be told, Kit himself had occupied most of his thoughts as well. He was strangely engrossing, for reasons Plo couldn’t quite put his finger on – it felt almost like a planetary gravity well, drawing two bodies together. Something about that kind and noble soul surely lurking under that irreverent exterior, the confidence behind every grin and smirk…

Something about Kit Fisto is speaking to him. He just… isn’t quite sure what it’s trying to say.

He glances up at the bar. Kit is standing with one sandaled foot on the rail and one elbow on the countertop, locked in an animated conversation with the patron mounted on the stool next to him. His short-sleeved top hangs unbuttoned in the humid restaurant air, allowing his torso to breathe through his undershirt; Plo studies the paisley pattern draped over the tone of his back, following its rambling path down the arc of his spine, down to where it tucks into the waistband of his cargo shorts. For the first time Plo notices the shapely curves sitting underneath Kit’s waist, almost like his back pockets are each filled with jogan fruit –

“Oh no,” Plo groans.

He tears his gaze away and fixes his eyes on the tabletop, consumed with horrible realization. The Jedi code forbid attachment – be it emotional or … physical – but there was no better word for how the situation had begun to unfold since their arrival at Glee Anselm. What other explanation could there be for how suddenly and intensely Plo had become enthralled by Kit’s presence? How else could he rationalize the un-Jedi-like fraternization - dare he say, _flirting_ that they had both engaged in over the last two days alone?

And if their feelings were to take them down a dark path, away from the Jedi teachings…

Light help him, how could he possibly resist?

The return of Kit startles him out of rumination. The Nautolan sets a glass before Plo, then slides into the opposite side of the booth and sets his own meal down before him. “I tried to find you something, but the cook droids weren’t programmed to puree their own recipes,” he says with a grimace. “Best I could do was Jogan fruit milkshake. Sorry.”

“You didn’t need to go to such trouble, but… thank you.” Plo fiddles the straw into his mask and pulls in greedily, thirsty beyond belief; the chilly concoction splashes into a mouth gone suddenly dry and trails icy-cold sweetness down his throat. He shivers involuntarily.

“Careful,” Kit cautions. “You don’t want to get brain freeze.”

“Too right.” Plo glances down at Kit’s lunch – a platter of tip-yip tenders and a basket of spindly-thin fritzle fries – and chuckles ruefully. “We’re hardly eating healthy today, are we?”

“We’re on vacation. Nobody can judge us for cutting loose a little.” To punctuate the point, Kit dunks a tender into a cup of Sernpidalian mayo-ketchup and takes a bite. The breading crunches pleasingly between his teeth, and flecks of spice and crumbs shower lightly onto the tabletop; he hums in pleasure. “ _Much_ better than the Temple cafeteria,” he smirks.

Plo can’t help but envy him. In the Temple, he would have at least been able to take a plate to his quarters, specially configured for his species’ unique atmospheric needs; the outside world was significantly less accommodating. They weren’t many, the ways in which one’s mouth interacted with the world, but being unable to experience them made one miss them all the more.

Kit seems to recognize his jealousy; his next bite of food is much less zestful. “So tell me about yourself, Plo Koon,” he says, letting his chin rest on the backs of his hands.

“You’re… interested in me?”

“Of course I am. We barely know each other, after all – don’t you think that should change?”

Plo hesitated. It was an innocent enough question… and yet, knowing what he understood now, was it really such a good idea to go through with this? This is no mere training exercise, after all, this is… this is…

“This is a _date_ ,” he says aloud, dumbly.

“Our first,” Kit nods. “Though we’re technically already married. A bit odd, that, no?”

Plo’s breath catches in his throat. He takes a sip of milkshake as he considers. Kit is correct – it’s technically just all part of their cover. He’d just be playing a role. He certainly wouldn’t risk anything by opening up. Perhaps these urges of attachment would dissipate with familiarity – perhaps all of this was just him overthinking too much. And… perhaps getting to know Kit Fisto better wouldn’t be as bad as he’d feared.

At the very least, it couldn’t _hurt_.

“There’s not much to tell,” he begins carefully. “I was born on Dorin, where I lived for a short time until my Force sensitivity was discovered by the Jedi. From then on, I was raised in the Temple, like all of us.”

“You can skip the boilerplate, Plo. Tell me something interesting. Like… Which initiate clan did you end up in?”

“Wolf Clan. And you?”

“Squall Clan.”

“I might have guessed.”

Kit laughs. “Was it that obvious?”

“It’s in the way you carry yourself – always on the move. Even sitting still, you practically quiver with alacrity.”

“Fair points. For what it’s worth, I had you pegged as Wolf Clan, too.”

“Oh?”

“Naturally. You’re thoughtful, serious – slow to provoke, but no doubt quick to action. Plus, you practically radiate ‘humble nobility’.”

“I do?” Consciously, Plo unlimbers his shoulders. Was that really the air he was putting on? “Do I seem at all… smug?”

“Just take the compliment for what it is, Plo.”

Oh. A… compliment. That made more sense.

Kit tents his fingers before him, watching Plo take another sip. “We won’t have many opportunities to test our saber forms here,” he notes innocently. “Out of curiosity, what’s your preferred form?”

“Form V - Shien.”

“Interesting. I prefer Shii-Cho, though I’ve been known to dabble in Ataru as well. Perhaps someday we’ll be able to compare our styles.”

“Hopefully against a common foe, and not each other.”

“Ideally.” Kit’s eyes sparkle. “Though, the saber tournament is coming up…”

Plo taps the side of his glass with a hum. “Then perhaps I’ll remember your kindness from today and go easy on you.”

This makes Kit laugh loud enough to be heard over the general din; they earn a few odd glances, but the distraction passes quickly. When he’s done, he slides across the booth to sit a bit closer to Plo, picking a fritzle fry out of the basket as he comes. “Here,” he says. “I’m pretty sure you can probably fit one of these through your mask.”

“It’s your meal – I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You shouldn’t have to miss out, Plo. Come on, give it a try.”

Hmm… Oh, very well.”

He extricates the straw from his mask, breaks the fry in half, and carefully feeds one segment through the port between his tusks. It slides neatly through the hole without much fuss; when it touches the tip of his tongue, he pulls it the rest of the way into his mouth and begins to chew.

“Not bad,” Plo declares. “Greasy – but I find it adds to the flavor.”

“Good,” Kit says. His hand falls over one of Plo’s. “I’m glad you don’t have to wait a week to eat solid foods again.”

They spend a moment with their fingers curled around each others’. Then Kit separates suddenly, looking chagrined – this surprises Plo, since he’d thought he would be the one to break off. He tilts his head curiously.

“Does it… bother you, at all?” Kit asks, sounding worried. “How much I’ve been touching you?”

Plo has to take a moment to search his feelings. But he answers honestly. “It’s… unusual, but… no, not at all.”

“Thank goodness,” Kit sighs in relief. “I didn’t mean for there to be so much contact between us – I was only doing what came naturally. I just know that some Jedi don’t really appreciate that sort of thing, and…”

“It’s no issue, Kit, really.”

“Right, right. I just – didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.” He reaches under his head-tresses and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s just how I am. If my creche instructors are to be believed, I was always a bit of a cuddle bug.”

“There’s no shame in it,” Plo replies, kindly. “I was much the opposite, actually. ‘Touch-averse’, I believe was the official term.”

Kit cocks his head. “You – seem to have grown out of it.”

“With time,” Plo replies, reaching for another fry. “But this is a vacation, after all. I’m allowed to… ‘cut loose’, as you put it.”

With a warm smile, Kit closes his hand around Plo’s once again. “Good to see you’re getting into the spirit of things,” he says.

Plo hums noncommittally. Kit’s fingers fold rather nicely around his own, and their contact makes him feel curiously warm. There’s a part of him – a small part, shrinking slowly – that wants to break away, wants to remember every warning and catechism on attachment of the Jedi tradition – but the earlier alarm bell is fading to a dull murmur, easily ignored, and gives giddy instinct the reins over his soul.

“Tell me, Kit,” he says after a moment. “Is this all that couples do in public?”

“What do you mean?”

“This.” Plo squeezes Kit’s hand in his. “This hand-holding – is this the extent of it? Don’t they ever… get closer?”

“Well, of course they do, but – ”

“Then shouldn’t we give it a try?” Behind his mask, Plo swallows, and he experiences a weird fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach. “We are, in theory, a couple, after all.”

The Nautolan’s glassy dark eyes blink in surprise. Then he smiles – bashfully, Plo notices – and has to duck his head. When he lifts it again, his cheeks are flushed. “Good point,” he says, sidling closer.

There’s a moment, as Kit closes the distance, where Plo’s earlier worries and fears flood back into the forefront of his mind and he wonders if opening this door to attachment will doom them both. Then Kit snakes an arm around his back and settles a hand on his waist, pulling him close, squeezing him gently against his side while his heart hammers in his chest –

“Comfy?” asks Kit.

“Quite,” Plo murmurs. He’s pleasantly surprised how well they fit together. “In fact… I think I rather like this.”

Kit chuckles. This close, Plo feels it vibrate through Kit’s chest against his shoulder. “I’m glad.”

They’re doomed, Plo knows. But somehow, he doesn’t mind.


	6. beach blanket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies if this chapter looks rushed but good lord it's been almost two months since last update T__T enjoy, kudo & comment!

“Pardon me, Plo, but you seem distracted.”

The Kel Dor tears his shielded eyes from the freighter-dotted horizon with some reluctance. “How so?”

“I only mean that most people would be more occupied with the game in front of them,” Kit returns placidly.

“Perhaps I’m merely… strategizing.”

“It’s _yahtt_ , Plo. There’s no strategy. You just pick up the dice and roll.”

Plo huffs, shuffling the dice back into their cup. “Perhaps there's no strategy to _you_ ,” he retorts.

Kit chuckles, leaning back on his elbows to watch the surf. The sun is warm upon his skin, and the sand is silky-fine beneath his palms. It is good to be back on the beaches of Glee Anselm, he thinks. Better still to be here with a friend.

The dice clatter and clink as Plo shakes the cup. _Yahtt_ is an ancient game, brought from their homeworld by the Gran as they spread their civilization to the stars in those halcyon days of galactic colonization. The implements for such a game were simple – a set of six-faced dice, a cup and bowl to hold them in, a scrap of flimsi or datapad to tabulate points – and the rules were equally so. A flurry of color and pips spill out into the bowl as Plo tips his hand. Then both players peer at their faces, counting up score.

Kit raises his brows and purses his lips, giving the impression of appearing impressed. “Four of a kind,” he notes. “Was it worth the wait, do you think?”

“It puts me ahead of you. So I would think so, yes.”

“It seems luck hasn’t totally abandoned you yet after all.” Kit scoops up the dice, gives them a rattle, and nonchalantly dumps out a big straight. “Ah, it would seem I spoke too soon.”

“You have been awfully lucky at this game,” Plo muses, stroking the front of his mask. “Almost too lucky.”

“What more can I say? Fortune favors me.” The Nautolan cocks his head slyly, leaning in and lowering his voice to a whisper. “You’re not accusing me of using the mystical energies of the universe to cheat at a simple dice game, are you, Plo?”

“I would never accuse a fellow Jedi of such a thing,” Plo murmurs. “Though your fingers seem fidgety of late. Particularly when you toss your rolls, I notice.”

Kit likes the sound of Plo’s voice, he’d realized a while ago – it carries a deep, natural richness in its timbre only amplified by the bassy resonance of his mask’s voicebox. But he discovers he likes it even more at this volume, where lowered tones produce a warm, velvety rumble that pours into his ears like mocha caf. It makes something in his stomach feel fluttery. It’s a good feeling. He’d like to feel it more before the week is out.

Plo scoops out the bowl once again. For the first time, Kit notices the dexterous grace with which his fingers gather the dice, the way his tendons shift under the skin of his hand as he rolls them in his palm, the flexing of his muscles beneath flesh as he rattles them in the cup. The wrapped folds of his shirt fall open slightly, obscured by his shaking forearms; it slips slightly off his shoulder as he dumps out the dice and looms over the bowl. Through the opening of his shirt Kit can see the toned, rounded cleave of his chest, highlighted by the light, shimmering sky-blue of his shirt.

“At last,” Plo sighs good-naturedly. “A _yahtt_ to match your own. It certainly took long enough.”

“Yeah,” Kit says dumbly. His cheeks are oddly warm, and he’s sure it’s nothing to do with the sun; he tries to distract himself by focusing his gaze on the palm-tree pattern of Plo’s shorts. _It’s a cute pattern_ , he thinks; _it suits him well_ – and then he clamps down on that train of thought before it can leave its station.

“Kit?”

He starts. “Yes, sorry?”

“It’s your turn.” The wrinkle around the Kel Dor’s eyes has returned, the wrinkle that tells him Plo is grinning behind his mask. “It seems I am not the _only_ one having trouble focusing on the game.”

“I was --- Just thinking about how nice a swim would be right now,” Kit fibs.

“I imagine it would,” Plo hums. “I’ve kept you away from the sea long enough, haven’t I?”

“At least you _admit_ you’re just toying with me,” the Nautolan teases.

Plo laughs. That light, tender note mixed with the husky bass of his voice makes Kit’s heart skip a beat. Then he puts a hand over Kit’s. “One more roll,” he suggests, “and we’ll call it a game. This roll will decide whether you overtake me anyway. Then you’ll be formally released.”

“You’re on.” Kit is perhaps a little too eager to pull his hand out from under Plo’s; he sweeps the dice back into their cup, shakes thrice, and spills them back out.

Plo deflates. “Damn.”

“I told you – fortune favors me today!” Kit chuckles as he rises, shaking loose grains of sand from his trunks. “I’m off to see how the water fares. Will you be alright on your own for a bit?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve plenty of water and sunblock, thanks to you, not to mention this umbrella you rented. Just, ah, don’t get dragged away by the current.”

Kit tosses off a salute with a smile as Plo waves him off; he jogs easily and confidently to the shoreline, weaving through the sparse crowd – a shirtless, bulky Abdenedo man flexing for a trio of Nautolan women, a clutch of Aleena setting up their beachside implements, a reedy Rodian in a tacky shirt passing over the sand with a sophisticated-looking sensor arm. He likes to imagine that if he runs fast enough he’ll be able to outrun the rose-tinted doubt creeping into the back of his brain, but he knows he’s only fooling himself. And it fully takes hold anyway by the time he finally dives back into the waters of his homeworld.

He’s crushing on Plo Koon, he knows, even as his arms cut a confident stroke through the waves and into deep waters. Crushing hard, too. He’s felt this way about maybe one other person in his life before – and that was a long time ago, during his Padawan years. When he was still internalizing the Jedi Order’s catechisms cautioning against attachment. He’d managed to ward off acting on those feelings once before – more or less, anyway. But this time was… different. That queasy, fluttery feeling in his stomach, the one that made him want to throw caution to the wind and take a gamble on his own emotions – it had never been this intense. It felt like a tether around his belly, dragging him under – dragging him deeper.

He pushes himself below the surface with his feet, paddling with his legs til he floats suspended in the space between the crystal-clear waves above and the sandy floor below, cradled by the waters he’d been parted from for so long. Decades long had been the wait to be reunited with the seas of his homeworld, and now he was so absorbed in his own troubles he couldn’t even properly enjoy it - a bittersweet reunion if ever there was one.

He was going to have to do something about this, Kit knew. Quite probably soon.

But then again –

They’d only be together for a week. He could keep control of himself for at least that long without compromising himself. And even if he couldn’t – if he, for some unthinkable reason, needed to confess (confess what, exactly, he couldn’t put into words) – they were both Jedi Masters, after all. Surely they could have a reasoned discussion about the matter and then put it behind them. Surely.

Right?

Kit takes a slow, deep breath in the brine – holds it – lets it out slowly through his nostrils. The bubbles speed upwards towards the surface, where the sun’s rays stream down on him through the water. He needed more time to think about things. For now, he would just – try to put it out of his mind. He clears his head, twists head-over-heels, and dives down deeper towards the ocean floor.

The beaches and oceans are carefully maintained, he remembers, to maintain the delicate balance of the ocean’s ecosystem with the needs of the surface (needs including but not limited to catering to galactic tourism). From above, he can already see the successes of that labor – as if an invisible dividing line had been drawn between the recreational beachfront and the natural world. Fine sand gives way to rocky cairns, growth patterns of coral and seaweed, and the occasional school of tiny fish darting between the stones and plant life.

It makes Kit’s heart glad to see that the oceans are still being tended to. Many planets neglect the balance of nature as they grow more cosmopolitan, he knows – usually to their own peril. It’s a point of pride to him that Glee Anselm has so far managed to avoid joining the ranks of those unlucky worlds.

He coasts just above the surface travelling parallel with the divide, dragging his fingertips through the silt, watching it rise in wispy clouds as he passes. He smiles as he drifts further and further along the border between man and nature, propelling himself with only the slightest, laziest paddles of his feet. A mound of rocks lies just beyond the imaginary border, encroaching just slightly on the ‘tourists’ zone’; he lists to one side, lifting his wrist just enough for his hand to pass over the stones.

He’s only just beginning to pass by when something darts out of a crevice in the cairn and bites into the flesh of his thumb with sharp, tiny teeth; he yelps, the sound drowned in the water which floods his mouth, and brings his arm up to have a look. A baby colo claw fish the length of his thumb and forefinger hangs tightly onto the pad of his finger – almost impossibly tiny, considering the massive beast it will eventually become, with translucent scales allowing full view of its skeleton.

Kit pries the little monster off his finger carefully, and allows it to retreat back to the comfort of its home. Then he considers the tiny cut in his finger, a single wisp of blood streaming from it, with confusion and alarm. Sabiloni colo claws tended to leave their clutches further into the shallows, true enough – but never this close. Never close enough to be a potential problem for surfers and swimmers. The network should have caught this little fellow on their most recent pass. Unless – this was a recent development.

He opens his mind to the surrounding ocean, experimentally – like a radar ping. The Force returns unease – anxiety – from the surrounding life. Kit Fisto considers this enough to warrant becoming properly concerned.

His brow remains furrowed as he paddles back to shore and wades out of the surf. Saltwater runs from the tips of his head-tresses like a faucet and wetly pastes his trunks to his thighs as he walks, but his mind is on other matters. He doesn’t notice the confrontation taking place on the beach until the Abednedo gives the Rodian a powerful shove.

“What, you think that was funny, little man?!” The ambulatory slab of beef grunts, giving another shove. Behind him, his cohort of fangirls snap pictures of the scene with their holocams and titter at the transgressiveness of it all.

The Rodian quails, bug eyes boggling in their sockets as he clutches his scanner. “I-I said I was sorry,” he says, antennae curling on his head. “I really didn’t see you, I-I swear I didn’t---”

“Oh, what, because you were too busy looking at that nerd crap, there?” The Abednedo snatches the scanner out of the Rodian’s skinny hands, brings it up over his head, and brings it down with a snap over his knee. The device doesn’t so much break at the point of impact as explode in a shower of plastoid and circuitry. He laughs as the Rodian yelps - a thick, hoary sound, gleeful in its cruelty. “There you go, dweeb. Problem solved.”

Kit arrives on the scene at the same time as Plo. They exchange only the briefest of glances before stepping in.

“There’s no call for that kind of behavior,” Plo suggests, putting out an arm between the beachcomber and beach bully. “Let’s all just calm down—”

“Or what?” The braggart squares his shoulders, swaggering closer to Plo. At this distance, they can both smell the stench of alcohol on his breath. Kit is pretty sure he feels his blood pressure rise. “What’re you gonna do about it, Tiny?”

“I won’t fight you, if that’s what you’re hoping,” the Kel Dor replies. “It would solve nothing.”

“Yeah, s’what I thought.” He turns and raises his fists in the air, whooping for his fan club. “You mess with me, I’ll mess you up! King of the beach, baby!”

“King of the brutes, perhaps,” Kit murmur, just loud enough to be heard.

To his credit, the big man whirls around with surprising speed given his size. “What, you got something to say, too?”

“Only that if you were truly confident in your strength, you wouldn’t be using it to start fights with tourists.” Kit can feel Plo looking at him skeptically. He ignores his fellow master in favor of drawing the brutish man’s ire further with a smirk.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean, little man?”

“There’s a phrase used in situations like this,” he replies mildly. “I believe it goes ‘pick on someone your own size’?”

The Abednedo’s nostrils flare as he rears back; a sneer curls his lip as his elbow pulls his fist up and behind the level of his shoulder. Kit watches this occur almost in slow motion, the way a Nubian housefly might observe the slow, ponderous movements of its swatter-waving hunters. As his opponent’s forearm surges forwards, he dips to one side, lunging into his chest and using his momentum to flip him up and over his shoulders. It’s not a difficult move, really, though he’s aware it must seem impressive to his observers. He doesn’t even have to use the Force.

Well… maybe he uses it a little. Three-hundred-something pounds of muscle doesn’t move easy.

The would-be strongman hits the beach with a groan and a meaty thump that throws up a thin cloud of sand. His fans gather half-heartedly around him as he sits up, loyalty obviously shaken by his ignominious defeat. Kit watches them for a moment to make sure there’ll be no further confrontation before he feels Plo touch his arm.

“Not the most diplomatic solution,” he says quietly.

“Perhaps,” Kit replies with a shrug. “But he won’t be doing any more punching down tonight. You’ll probably want to report this incident to the authorities, sir,” he adds, turning to the Rodian. “They should be able to help our large friend here ‘reimburse’ you for any damaged possessions.” He gives him a wink.

The beachcomber stammers, fiddling with the rounded frame of his oversized eyeglasses. Kit wonders if that flush of dark blue over his snout and cheeks is his natural teal complexion or something more. “That’s alright, really,” he says finally. “I wouldn’t want any more trouble with, uhm, him.”

“I don’t think you’ll have anything more to worry about.” Kit glances sadly at the mangled technology lying on the beach. “A shame about your scanner.”

“I’ll just requisition a new one from the Survey Corps.” The Rodian hastily gathers up the crumpled circuitry in his lanky arms. “I, er, work for them, actually. Geological Survey corps. This is supposed to be my vacation but it’s turned into more of a, uh, working vacation, I guess.” He jumbles the mess into one elbow and throws out a hand, grinning anxiously. “I-I’m Gleez, by the way. Gleez Geedo. You’re --- uh, lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Something buzzes in Kit’s pocket as they shake hands – his comlink, he suspects. The negotiatiors must have need of them.

What a shame. He’d been rather enjoying the beach til now.

“Say, there’s a, uh, party going on later tonight,” Gleez continues, thumbing his glasses back up the bridge of his snout. “Some kind of local festival thing, down on the beach? I don’t know if you’re planning on going, but… it sounds fun.”

“We very well might,” Kit replies, silencing his comm in his pocket. “My friend and I, we’re actually here on vacation as well. Our schedule is quite open. Isn’t that right, Plo,” he asks, glancing back.

Plo isn’t looking at either of them. Kit follows his line of sight back to the Abednedo, rising on unsteady feet. There’s a rather prominent tattoo on his left shoulder blade of a golden lambda, styled like a fishhook. Its significance eludes him, but it must be important to leave Plo so transfixed.

“Plo.” He jostles the shorter Kel Dor slightly. “Party tonight?”

“Hm? O-oh, yes,” he says, nodding as if he’d always been listening. “I’d love to.”

“It’s a plan, then,” Kit grins. “We’ll take our dinner indoors first, though … and then perhaps we’ll see you there, Gleez?”

“S-sure hope so,” Gleez replies, cycling his lungs and waving shyly. He makes to leave, waddling over the sand back towards civilization – then stops for a moment, leaning in towards Plo. “Y’know, that’s – that’s some friend you have, there.”

Plo stares at Kit’s face for a long moment. “That he is,” he says, in a voice like warm cocoa. “I’m lucky to know him.”

Kit smiles modestly, and tries very hard not to think about the warmth creeping across his face.


	7. towel off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎉🎉i didn't take two months to update this time!!!🎉🎉
> 
> comments & kudoes still greatly appreciated! enjoy!!

“That geologist fellow on the beach seemed friendly enough,” Kit remarks to Plo as they return to their shared apartment.

“A pity we can’t say the same for everyone we met today.” Plo drops their bag by the door as it swishes shut behind them, then fixes Kit with an inscrutable look. “Though I can’t help but feel that perhaps we could have settled that situation somewhat more… peacefully.”

Kit shrugs. “Some people just refuse to listen to reason,” he shrugs. “I’m not saying it was a perfect solution, but it did keep that man from being a menace.”

“I won’t deny that he perhaps needed to learn a lesson, but… Teras Kasi, Kit? Really?”

“You said yourself, someone needed to teach him a lesson.”

Plo sighs, chagrin leaking through the grills of his mask. “Not very noble of us, to be in agreement on such a thing.”

“There’s nothing more noble than standing up to a bully, in my opinion. Speaking of which, I believe the negotiators have an update for us regarding talks with the Trade Federation.” The Nautolan fishes his comlink out of his pocket and leaves it on the table, gesturing to his partner. “Would you mind taking their briefing while I go rinse off?”

“Not at all. I’ve been hoping they would bring us into the fold sometime soon, actually.”

“Great! Tell them I said hello.” Kit winks, then trots off to the refresher. The curve of his spine and shoulders still glisten faintly with dried water and sea salt as he leaves. Plo tries not to let his gaze linger for too long, then joins the chirping comlink to a palm-sized holoprojector by way of an uplink cord. Finally he connects the call with a long, tapered claw, whereupon a finger-tall hologram of a womanly figure in Diplomatic Corps uniform shimmers into being above the beveled plate.

“Master Plo Koon, I presume,” the figure says, its accent crisp and Upper Coruscanti. Plo gets the sense that he’s being given a once-over. “Settled in, I see.”

He glances down at his vacationer’s shirt and shorts – not exactly formal attire. “Only living up to the cover story you provided for us,” he replies coolly.

“As you say. One would never tell you were a Jedi.”

“One assumes that to be the point, Negotiator.”

“Indeed.” The figure clears its throat. “In any case, I have an update from you from the chief Republic attaché on site; it is their opinion that the situation remains well in hand and that they expect no further difficulties to arise from negotiations with either party. Therefore, in accordance with the provisions of mutual assistance between the Republic state and the Jedi Order outlined in the Galactic Constitution, we are obligated to inform both masters that your presence at this summit shall not be required.”

The news came as a surprise, and he thanks his antiox mask for hiding it. “The Diplomatic Corps may have the prerogative to decide such matters,” Plo replies, narrowing his eyes. “But I would caution against making any such decisions in haste. The week has barely begun.”

“Regardless,” the figure replied, flickering with a dismissive wave of its hand, “the decision is made. Consequently, we advise that you make a prompt return to the Jedi Order on Coruscant before your presence should happen to… upset the delicate balance of power in these proceedings.”

What? “Again, Negotiator, I strongly suggest – “

“What you suggest is irrelevant. Our decision is final. The Diplomatic Corps thanks you for your service and apologizes for any inconvenience. Good day, Master Jedi.” With that rather curt rejoinder, the hologram winked out of existence, leaving Plo to lean heavily against the edge of the dining table.

It had seemed as though the Republic diplomats had been keeping them at arms’ length from the beginning, but their sudden and complete dismissal was just… bewildering. What in the galaxy could have happened to merit such an abrupt change in their standing with this detachment? Plo sighs out a deep breath and tries to puzzle the matter out, but comes up with nothing. Simply put, it’s inexplicable.

Inwardly, he assumes the worst. The Trade Federation’s corruption penetrated everywhere within reach, like a Dorinian bore-worm – even within the chamber of the Galactic Senate, a matter that most Jedi were prepared to tolerate but few discussed. Its duplicity knew no bounds, much less those imposed by the frame of government - how much further was it willing reach, given half a chance? Could it slither into the pockets of diplomatic staff? Deep enough to learn of the Jedi presence at their summit, and to summarily dismiss them? Deep enough to strangle the legal arguments of the Mon Calamari before they even leave the docket?

And then, that other matter – the yellow sigma. First on the transport, and then on the beach bully. The brand of Stark. They couldn’t possibly be connected, could they?

Kit’s voice echoes down the hall suddenly. “Did anything interesting come up?”

The noise startles Plo, for whatever reason. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to cut our vacation short,” he replies.

“Sorry, I couldn’t quite catch that. Come again?”

“I said, we – “ The words die in Plo’s throat. Instead he paces the distance down to the refresher door and leans on against the wall beside it. “I said we’re going to have to cut our vacation short.”

“Why would that be?”

“The diplomats have released us from our obligation at this summit, and requested we depart.”

“What!? Why?”

“Apparently, they believe they can get on well enough without us.” Plo folds his arms and shrugs for someone who isn’t there. “They offered no other reason.”

“Hmm.” Water trickles like rainfall beyond the door; steam curls out from the crack between frame and floor. “Well, that’s certainly … unusual.”

“Typical bureaucratic foolishness,” the Kel Dor grumbles under his breath. “It wouldn’t surprise me if it were done for love of money.”

“Maybe they watched that holospecial on Governor Tarkin and somehow came away with an inflated opinion of Republic functionaries?”

“Given the war escalated as a result of a diplomatic breakdown, I would call that a hideous reinterpretation of historical fact.”

“It’s all I can think of. Unless Master Yoda borrowed twenty credits from the chief litigator and never paid it back.”

Plo tries to hide a chuckle behind a frustrated _harrumph_ and is only partially successful. “You know, it’s strange, but I’m almost glad this situation is as baffling to you as it is to me.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one, it means I’m not the only one feeling flummoxed right now.”

With a muffled guffaw, Kit begins to laugh – a rolling belly laugh, like the crash of the surf. The melody of it bounces off the shower walls and through the door with pitch-perfect acoustics; Plo suddenly feels as though he’s been struck by a ray of sunlight on a cloudy day.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, smiling behind his mask.

“It’s just – you,” Kit explains breathlessly. “’Flummoxed’. It’s just – it’s just very funny, coming from you. I don’t know why.”

“Really?” Plo hums, faux-thoughtfully. “I was never really known for my sense of humor at the Temple. Now I find comedy is just a matter of choosing a sufficiently silly word.”

“It’s your delivery! It’s just so… _dry_. But yes, the word is silly too.”

“Well, then. I shall try to be more… _persnickety_ with my word choice from here on.”

“Pffft--! A-alright, enough silly words.”

“Such as ‘unguent’, or ‘youngling’?”

“Stop, stop!” Kit pleads, chortling. “You’re killing me!”

Plo allows himself a chuckle of his own, letting it rumble in the pit of his throat. Kit had a way of lifting his spirits, he’d discovered, both as peer and companion. He makes an excellent friend, Plo thinks – the kind you don’t just value, but treasure. And that admission makes it that much harder to tamp down on the pleasant effervescent sensation fluttering in his stomach when they’re together.

The sound of rainfall dies; a moment later, the door glides open. Kit steps out in a plush snow-white bathrobe, loosely closed and tied lazily around his waist, tucking a stray head-tress back behind his shoulder. He smells of steam and sea, and at this distance his scent all but fills the olfactory channels of Plo’s mask. As his partner’s big, dark eyes fall upon him, their closeness jolts Plo off the wall and into stepping back half a step. His heart flutters traitorously when the corner of Kit’s lip quirks upwards with bemusement. They’re nice lips, he can’t help but notice, full and curvy – the lower of the two mesmerizingly thick –

Kit shocks him out of his stream of consciousness with a hand on his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, Plo, I think you’re hilarious,” he says gently. “And I really do mean that.”

Plo swallows, but his mouth has gone curiously dry. “You do?” he replies, lamely.

“I do, genuinely. Put a little work into your routine, and I think you’d have even Knight Windu rolling in the aisles.”

“Well, that’s – quite a lot to hope for, I think.”

“Hm, perhaps. He’s like stone, that one.” The Nautolan glides past him and down the hall, speaking easily over the sound of soft footfalls against tile. “Joking aside, we should start thinking about our next move.”

Plo nods, stroking one of the tusks of his mask as he follows. “Sourcing civilian transportation back to Coruscant this early into the vacation cycle will be difficult. Perhaps a discreet freighter captain—?”

“I was referring to tonight.” Kit shoots him a grin. “You wouldn’t want to miss the festival tonight, would you?”

“Are you proposing that we stay?”

“You said yourself, it’s the middle of the vacation cycle.”

“And what of the summit? It could reflect badly upon the Order if the negotiators --”

“It could, you’re right. But after the diplomatic service went to so much trouble preparing for our presence, it seems rude to me to allow their hard work to go to waste. And – “ Kit pulls open the door to the suite’s refrigerator and leans into its chamber with a grunt. “Should the negotiations happen to run into any _unforeseen difficulties_ , we’ll still be in a position to lend our assistance.”

Plo blinks owlishly behind his goggles. “So you’re suggesting,” he says dubiously, “that we simply – ignore a direct request from a Republic official?”

“You’re looking at it all wrong, my friend.” Kit beams as he offers Plo a bottled tea. “We’re not ignoring them, merely considering the situation and deciding upon our own course of action.”

“Which is… to ignore them.”

Kit shrugs noncommittally. Plo accepts the tea.

“There could be repercussions for the Jedi,” he says, slowly. “But truthfully, Kit, I think there’s much wisdom in this plan. I can’t quite explain it, but… I sense there’s more going on here than we know.”

“You sense something in the Force? A disturbance?”

“No – nothing that severe. But there is a – a feeling. Just a hunch, really. With barely anything to it. Mostly my own misgivings.” He chuckles once, softly, self-deprecating. “I apologize, Kit. With the way I’ve been carrying on lately, I must seem paranoid—"

“Not at all.” Kit’s palm returns to Plo’s shoulder, somehow comforting just by its presence. His eyes are gentle and reassuring. “Those misgivings is exactly why we should stay in the first place, don’t you agree?”

Plo Koon hesitates – and then sighs. His hand creeps up to join Kit’s, heedless of appearances. “You’re right, of course. I – apologize for seeming such a worrywart.”

“They say worries are born from care, Plo. And I would never doubt your devotion to the Jedi or the Republic.”

“Nor I your wisdom, Kit.”

He knows the gesture will go unseen, but Plo smiles all the same. Kit answers with a smile of his own. It warms him more than the sun ever could.

“Now,” Kit says, “we still have some hours before the party – I don’t suppose you’re up for getting your tail waxed at _yahtt_ again?"


	8. festival pt. i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! lost my star wars muse for a hot minute, still not sure if it's really back yet but i wanted to make sure y'all got something to show for being so patient 😅
> 
> first of probably three parts in this space, so stay tuned & enjoy!

“It occurs to me that I should mention I’m not the best person to have at parties.”

“You might have said so before we left,” Kit replies, teasing. “Or at least before we arrived.”

Plo shrugs apologetically. “Between the _yahtt_ game and the commotion of catching the hover-rail, it must have slipped my mind.”

“Will you be uncomfortable? Would you prefer we go elsewhere?”

“No, no – but thank you. Parties aren’t a problem, exactly, it’s only – well, Kel Dor tend to experience social gatherings differently than most. I didn’t want you to be concerned if I seemed to fall short of expectations.”

“Nor do I want you to feel as though you need to live up to some imagined standard of ‘proper’ engagement.” Kit ambles closer to Plo as they wander down the grass-lined sandy path, slinging an arm around his shoulders encouragingly. “Don’t feel like you need to perform enjoyment for _my_ sake, Plo. It’s only a party, after all – enjoy yourself however you want to.”

“I’ll warn you that enjoying myself may only look like people-watching.”

The Nautolan chuckles. The sound rumbles pleasantly in his shirtless trunk, resonating through Plo’s side in time with the dull pounding of synthesized dance music thrumming through the air. “Bit of a wallflower, then?”

“An introvert, perhaps,” he replies coyly. Quite naturally, his palm finds itself resting against Kit’s waist. “Though anyone can seem introverted compared to _some_ people.”

“Is that a dig at someone in particular?”

“Only an observation.”

The festival unfolds before them as they crest the hill – a sprawling blanket of bacchanalian delight rolling up and down the coast like the tide lapping at the shoals upon which it roiled. Revelers pounded the sand with the soles of their feet, or hooves, or whatever means of locomotion they happened to possess; droids weaved through the thronging masses on treads or hoverlifts, bearing colorful mixed drinks in cheap glasses or holocams with which to capture the event. Local entertainers provided traditional Glee Anselmi music and dancing on the flatter sections of the beach, or performed carefully-choreographed aquatic ballet from within large spheres of seawater held aloft over tourists’ heads through repulsor cages. Oohs and aahs carried on the salty night air, mingled with other sounds of laughter and merriment.

Looking out over the partiers gathered on the beach, Kit pulls a deep breath in through his nose and lets it out as a happy sigh. “Truly, it’s been too long,” he muses, grinning. “The last time I was here I must have been just a child!”

Plo hums, taking in the festive atmosphere in his own way. “It’s quite a party,” he nods. “Though, I’ve seen bigger on Dorin.”

“They have parties on Dorin?”

“It’s a dark world of violent, unpredictable storms. Occasions for celebration tend to be warmly recieved.”

He glances at the open dance circle to their right as they pass by, then to Kit as he feels his pace slow; the yearning to leap in and join, to plunge deep into merry-making euphoria, is so strong Plo can detect it without trying.

He leans in close to Kit so he can be heard over the raucous din. “You’ve been looking forward to this, I see,” he murmurs.

Kit’s big, dark eyes roll towards his fellow master in an almost sheepish way. His cheeks flush, but his face does not turn away from the dance. “As I said, it’s been a long time.”

Behind his mask, Plo can’t help a smile. He nudges Kit encouragingly in the direction of the circle as he reluctantly slips out from under his arm. “Then I won’t keep you.”

Even as he shrugs it off, Kit is trailing along the slope of his shoulder blades, fingers curving down his arm to rest their tips against his wrist. “Are you sure?”, he asks, his tone genuine.

“Quite,” the Kel Dor laughs. “Not even two minutes ago you were telling me to enjoy the festival however I wanted. Is it so much to ask that you do the same?”

“Well, I only—”

Kit falters. His cheeks look nice, Plo decides - even more so flushed with pink.

“I didn’t want to seem selfish,” he finishes, somewhat bashfully.

There’s something naïve about the sentiment – an innocence unlikely from a Jedi Master, and yet, the sincerity of it fills Plo with warmth. His fingers close around Kit’s palm, squeezing gently, as he insists: “This is _your_ homecoming, Kit. It would be a shame if you let the opportunity pass on my account, of all things.”

His partner’s eyes glimmer in the darkness and the firelight – eyes so warm and deep one could almost lose themselves completely within them. Kit smiles at him gratefully, fingers squeezing back. Then he’s away, ducking into the circle and joining in the swirl of life and merry-making, of stamping feet and high-singing voices.

Plo almost wished he could join him - he made slipping into the flow and the movement seem so easy. But such things weren’t exactly his taste. Besides, he had his own way of immersing himself in the festivities.

He accepts a fizzy, umbrella-festooned drink from a passing steward droid and wanders over to a quiet spot by the surrounding tropical treeline. From here, he can look out on the sea of bobbing heads out even to the ocean, on beachside bonfires trailing up into the clouded night sky. If he inhales deeply, he can taste the smoke on the air, smell the scents of surf and turf cooking on the wind.

He holds his breath for one heartbeat – two – turning his eyes upward as he lets it out slow.

In the Force, all life carries its own energy – an aura, perhaps, or less academically, a ‘vibe’ – that makes up the invisible fabric binding the universe together. Through it, certain individuals were able to establish temporary bridges between the thoughts of others and their own; some could even go so far as to forge more permanent bonds between individual spirits. Still others could dip briefly into the mystic energies permeating each lifeform and visualize the invisible resonance that bound the souls of the galaxy to those around them – to sink into the Force, and behold the force of others. It was a humbling experience for those who were able to master the technique, one which only grew more impressive the larger the gathering.

Plo watches the accumulated aura rise into the sky like clouds, myriad colors intermixing kaleidoscopically against clouded stars. The swirl of hues blends together like running paint, and then- before his eyes – begins to gyre around one brilliant point of effervescent green, shining like a lodestar amidst the multicolored vortex.

Through half-lidded eyes, he lets himself become enchanted by its light.


	9. festival pt. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said my star wars muse went away for a hot second but then i hammered out a chapter that's double the length of the last one. living through the end of rotj irl musta done me good, i guess 😅
> 
> kudo, comment, and enjoy!

You miss certain things from home, growing up in the Jedi Temple.

It’s only natural – spiritually, the Jedi family is a sprawling mosaic of individuals, experiences, and beliefs, connecting with each other in infinite ways through the Force. Practically speaking, though, Jedi society is considerably more homogenized than that. Imports from knights’ and masters’ birth cultures usually survive like verdure in a terrarium – transplanted, cultivated, appreciated, but forever confined by circumstances beyond control.

But if you take it home – take it back to its natural habitat, let it sink its roots deep into the soil which bore it – it can grow again. Even better, it can _flourish_.

This is how it feels to be Kit Fisto, in this moment, on his homeworld; feet stamping, arms waving, heart pumping in time with the synthesized beat. Riding on a tide of sybaritic euphoria. Whirling against the backlit flame and dark and all the shades of half-light that fall between them.

The sand around the bonfire is crowded with potential dance partners. They jostle against each other in a frenzied, sensual rush – joining for a brief moment, departing just as quickly. Kit gains and sheds his own collection of partners rather passively – a bright-eyed Mirialan, a pair of Twi’lek twins, a massive barrel-chested Shistavanen, a gently ululating Ithorian. They each appreciate his brief company in their own way, just as he appreciates their presence in the Force. For most of them, merely passing by is enough.

But one dancer in particular keeps coming back, like an asteroid chasing the orbit of a much larger body – a Zygerrian woman with long tapered ears and an even longer ponytail, which spills down below her waist in several braids. She dances so close with him that the folds of her tropical grass-patterned skirt threaten to tangle in his legs. Her eyes never leave his, but when their hands meet during the drop, he feels nothing – no connection whatsoever.

Even by the roaring bonfire, she leaves him strangely cold. And yet even when they disengage, she’s never far behind.

Kit lasts through two rotations of dancing before he feels the need to step away. He maneuvers carefully through the trickle of exhausted vacationers trudging towards an outdoor bar, sitting under a sun-hatched roof on the dunes not too far away; he wipes away the sweat beading on his brow as he mounts a stool, even as more glistens on his trunk and head-tails under the glow-bulb lamps above.

A waitress droid wipes down the teakwood counter with a cloth as it motors clockwise around the bar. “What can I getcha, hon?” it asks as it rolls to a stop before him. “I’d offer ya water, but I never touch the stuff myself. Har har har.”

“That sounds lovely, actually,” he pants, smiling. “With ice, if you have it.”

“One dihydrogen monoxide on the rocks, coming up.”

The droid wheels away as quickly as it came, off to handle some other customer’s request. The whine of its servos have barely left his ears when he feels someone sidle up beside him, taking the seat one away from his own. He glances sidelong just long enough to confirm it’s his Zygerrian shadow.

“Hey,” she purrs.

Kit gives her a polite smile. “Hey yourself.”

“Those were some damn fine moves out there. I’ve danced with a lot of people tonight, but no one else even came close. Where’d you learn to move like that, stranger?”

“Coruscant,” he says. It’s not entirely a lie.

“Really? Did you go to some kind of studio, or class?”

“Something like that.” He smoothly changes the subject. “How about you?”

“Oh, I’ve been all over. It’s the nature of the job.”

“And what would that be?”

Her lips quirk upwards for a moment, shoulders shrugging – thoughtfully, knowingly. “Acquisitions & retrieval. You?”

Her answer struck Kit oddly. He was more aware than most of the previous conflict between the Jedi and the Zygerrian Slave Empire. He tried not to read too deeply into the implication. “Conflict resolution.”

The waitress droid returns, bearing ice water. The Zygerrian reaches out and grabs its arm as it turns to go. “Merenzane Gold, cut with Zabrak ferment, make it a double,” she says, depositing an immodest sum of credits on the counter. “And fetch an extra glass for my friend here.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Kit says.

“My treat.” Her eyes, still smiling, narrow at the edges. “I insist.”

There it is again – that coldness. With an edge to it, this time. He drops the issue. The droid departs.

“Rather pricey, for a drink order,” he remarks carefully.

“Only settle for the best, that’s what I say,” she replies. “And my line of work tends to pay well.”

“It must, if you’re willing to pay so much for a stranger’s drink.”

“What can I say? Sometimes people intrigue me.” Their drinks appear in a flash; she lifts hers to her lips, still smiling over the rim of the glass. “What’s your name, anyway, ‘stranger’?”

“Call me Kit.”

“Well, howdy, Kit. Call me Latrans.”

They exchange a dainty handshake. Out of politeness, Kit tastes his own Merenzane – it’s sweet and decadent and vaguely piney. He thinks the metallic taste clinging to the back of his tongue may be actual gold. Or perhaps that’s only the ferment.

“You live on Glee Anselm, Kit?”

“I was born here, but I’m sorry to say I had to leave when I was very young. It feels good to be back.” It’s the truth.

“I’m on holiday, myself. Well—sort of. It’s more of a working vacation.”

“That’s not too far from my own situation. Or at least it was, until the, ah, people I work for told me they’d figure it out themselves and not to bother. So now I’m just… enjoying the extra time, honestly.”

“Really?” She hums. “You must be pretty loyal to, ah… the people you work for.”

“You have no idea,” he chuckles. “It’s a lifelong commitment sort of thing.”

“Heh. I could never stay under one leash that long. Me, I go where the most money is.”

“You could get into a lot of trouble, chasing that sort of employment. And a lot of other people, too, from what I’ve heard lately.”

“That some kind of crack against my profession?”

“I only suggest that perhaps the galaxy would be a better place if people focused on the maximum good, instead of the maximum profit.”

Latrans snorts. Her ponytail wags behind her dismissively as she shakes her head. “You’ve got it backwards, my friend. The galaxy’s always going to be rougher than it is kind. If you wanna make it in this world, you gotta take what you can and give nothing back.”

“Surely, there are better maxims to guide your life by.”

“Maybe,” she shrugs. “But they’re nowhere near as much fun.” She laughs and bangs on the table; droplets of alcohol jump out of her glass. Her smile bares her canines.

Kit quaffs his tumbler of Merenzane in the conversational lull. The alcohol leaves behind a pleasant buzzing sensation in his cheeks. He chases it down with a long sip of water; its glass has begun sweating profusely in the same time it has taken him to stop doing the same. The ice cubes within, melted into rounded lozenges, clink against each other as he sets the glass back down. Behind them, the party crowd is pushing in, crushing against Kit’s peripheral awareness. Revelers are hooting and hollering outside.

“You here alone?” Latrans asks suddenly.

“With my husband, actually.”

“Really.” Her eyebrows arch in surprise; it seems too carefully choreographed to be genuine.

“Is that so shocking?”

“No, I only thought – that Kel Dor fellow you arrived here with, right? I thought you were only here as… uh, friends.”

“Well, we _are_ that,” Kit replies easily. “Good friends who, ah… happen to love each other deeply.”

The rarest of half-truths; the kind that twisted and turned in on itself so much to the point that even he doesn’t know where its lie begins. Perhaps it never does.

Latrans scans the crowd with a practiced eye. “I don’t see him anywhere around,” she remarks casually.

“He has his own way to enjoy parties. It’d be unfair of me to chain him to my side for the whole time.”

“He seemed fine being attached at your hip earlier. Where do you think he is now?”

“That’s not really any business of ours, don’t you think?”

“Well, how are you going to find each other again at a party this size?”

“We will. We can…” He pauses thoughtfully. “Attune to each other better than most.”

She looks at him skeptically, but something in her belt buzzes before she can voice any more opinions. “Hold that thought,” she says, and fishes a comlink out of her pouch. “I’m in the middle of something here, this had better be important… Yes, I know, I’m handling it right now…”

Kit’s ears buzz with white noise as she twists a dial on the device; a built-in silence projector, he guesses. Must be a business call.

He twists around on the stool, resting his elbows on the bar behind him. The crowd rages like a maelstrom around them, but as enough people find their seats or abandon the pop-up altogether, he finds a clear line of sight down the shoreline. The surf is rushing up the beach, paving away the blemishes and imperfections left by columns of marching partygoers. The starry sky meets the faraway edge of the ocean, blending together into a painter’s stroke of night. Humanoid-shaped dots meander hither and thither, either homeward bound or crawling towards their next burst of hedonistic pleasure.

_“Local oceanographic sensors are detecting heightened levels of aquatic activity in your area,”_ drones the radio behind the bar. _“All beachgoers are advised to use sound judgement and refrain from any nighttime swimming. Authorities suggest remaining within the bounds of the shoreline, especially during the time of our local festivities…”_

Surrounding patrons react to this news with scorn. Some of the rowdier boys wearing Republic cadet off-duty uniforms mutter amongst themselves, taking bets on how many swimmers get munched by water rathtars by morning. Kit rolls his eyes. For one thing, rathtars weren’t even native to this planet. For another, he’d never heard of ‘water’ rathtars.

An overlarge Ugor in a bulky bodysuit mounts the barstool between them just as Latrans turns back around. She has to step down and walk around in order to see Kit again, carrying her own glass in one hand; she leans against the bar with a wolfish grin, supporting herself by the heel of a palm.

“Sorry about that. Had to take a call real quick.”

He nods. “It’s no problem.”

She follows his gaze out into the night. The moon is hanging high over the bay; light dazzles over the waves.

“It’s getting pretty late out there,” she comments.

“So it is.” By now, the ice-water is fully melted; he quaffs the remainder with ease, leaving a credit by the glass. “I should see to my partner. I imagine he’s about ready to turn in for the evening.”

“Done already?”

“I can’t imagine he’d be one for staying on the beach until dawn.”

There’s a foreign presence on his bare bicep, suddenly; her fingers are walking up his shoulder. “I was referring to _you_ , Mister Kit.”

Something clicks in his head. He meets her gaze with a bemused smile. “What do you mean?” he asks, innocently.

“I mean, surely, you have enough energy to walk a lady back to her room, don’t you?”

“Are you sure that’s _all_ you mean?”

She play-acts confusion, fluttering her eyelashes as she purses her lips. “I’m sure I don’t know what you could possibly be referring to.”

With a shake of his head, Kit chuckles. He stands and shrugs off her hand in the same motion. “My friend, for what it’s worth, I appreciate your apparent interest,” he explains, quiet enough to be subtle but loud enough to be heard over the din. “But not enough to be willing to betray my partner for you.”

Latrans doesn’t stop smiling. It’s a lean, incorrigible smile. Predatory, even. But she does shrug.

“Suit yourself,” she says; her tone says, ‘Your loss’. “If you change your mind, though—”

“Unlikely.”

“—You can find me on the fifth floor of the resort. The penthouse. Just ask for me, I’m usually around.” She drains the rest of her Merenzane with three short gulps, winking as she turned back to the bar. “Be seeing you, Mister Kit.”

_Hopefully not anytime soon,_ he thinks.

He trudges out into the sand. The music is quieting down; the wind has blown away the festivities’ scents. The air around him is cold, buzzing with the sound of silence, broken occasionally by the dull crash of waves.


	10. festival pt. iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pops in like babu frik after another month of no update* hey heyyyyyyyy
> 
> this chapter happens more or less concurrently w/ pt ii! just fyi! hope you enjoy!

“Great party, right?”

The Moorseerian’s breath is thick with mingled alcohol and methane, and leaking, somehow, from the ring where their induction port meets its breathing tube; Plo Koon’s nose scrunches under his mask as the stench seeps through its olfactory vents. He murmurs a half-hearted agreement and tries not to appear too miffed when one of their four gesticulating hands accidentally looses a globule of margarita from the rim of its glass, which lands in the collar of his shirt. It leaves a wet, dribbling splat that shakes him even further out of his attunement with the Force; it stays with him as thin, wispy strands of color at the edge of his vision. The ocean of light above, and the lodestar shining within it, has all but totally faded away.

“Great party, right?” hiccups the Moorseerian.

“Yes,” Plo sighs. “I agree.”

The spacer wavers on their feet. They clap both of his shoulders at once with their free hands before staggering away into the crush of bodies. The back of their spacesuit is embroidered with a golden sigma. Plo watches them leave, reflecting mentally on that turn of phrase conflating the sense of mounting irritation with ‘getting one’s hackles up’ – how quaint and curious it was, the ability to reduce such a prickling, anxious sensation down to a simple, inoffensive idiom! Even now he finds it difficult to grasp, writhing in his brain like a Purcassian river eel, slippery and quarrelsome.

He finds it vexing, how familiar with such anxiety he’s become over the past few days – especially for what was supposed to be, official mandate aside, an otherwise quiet retreat. Of course, he’s not so selfish as to assume that his is the only vacation in history to have been disappointing, but in theory, it should have been at least restorative. In theory, the Republic shouldn’t have pushed the Jedi away so early into the week. In theory, he shouldn’t be seeing so many echoes of an uncomfortable past in the present.

Then again, the relationship that the Diplomatic Corps had devised between himself and Kit Fisto was supposed to be purely fiction, and look how well _that_ was turning out.

That, too, was becoming increasingly troubling – on multiple fronts. The largest of which, of course, being the doctrinal aspect – the Jedi, largely, are celibate. In keeping with their teachings, most shun and avoid attachments, particularly those of the romantic variety – for _very good reason_ , it was stressed, and rightly so. Emotional stressors and traumas press heavily upon a Force-sensitive, charge how they interface with the Force. Affection born of intimacy brought joy to the heart, and passion, but also idolatry and possessiveness – the keys to corruptive greed. Gateways to the path of the dark side.

Plo Koon knew that those who lived outside Jedi esotericism (which is to say, most people) sometimes found it illogical, or even idiotic, that the Jedi would preclude themselves from such engagements. Such sentiments even penetrated the Order, on occasion. But they forget those admonishments and catechisms exist for a reason.

Civilizations have lived and died for a Sith’s passions; planets have burned for their desires. It was best not to tempt them by assuming oneself immune to them. Indeed, perhaps the safest course was to not tolerate their presence at all.

But watching Kit dancing under the starlit sky – agile and graceful, beaming in the dark, firelight dancing across a sheen on lime-olive skin – he already feels like he’s walking a knife’s edge. Even from afar, he feels perilously close – and yet deep within him, buried in the ball of roiling doubts and anxieties in his core, Plo also feels a longing to be much, much closer---

No, no. Shutting the door on that thought. Pushing it back down the well of the mind. Smothering it before it can take root any more than it already has. Look away, Plo, look away.

And so he does, scanning the flood of bodies massing the beach and sinking the tusks of his antiox apparatus into the neon-green liquid of the glass he’d only just remembered he was holding; an induction tube funneled the drink within from the glass to his lips. It’s a strange flavor – an unassuming sweetness that gradually soured to a piny, bitter taste. Not his favorite, certainly – though he supposes there’s always an element of risk involved with any libation procured from a roving steward droid.

A flurry of movement that draws his attention. It is the Abednedo from earlier, the one with absurd muscle definition; he is laughing and roaring with a group of four or five human men in undone uniforms, each of them waving a foaming tankard in the air and whooping. Plo realizes suddenly that he recognizes those uniforms – they are from the Republic Starfleet. Cadets, if he’s not mistaken. He wonders if they realize the man with whom they’re celebrating was a part of the Stark Combine that once held the Republic by the throat. He wonders if they even care.

His thoughts are leaning dark again. He needs a distraction; one arrives in the form of a throat clearing hesitantly behind him. It’s the Rodian from earlier – the surveyor. _Gleez Geedo_ , Plo dimly remembers. His glasses are smudged, his shirt patterned with an obnoxious amount of Kibo flowers.

“Um, hi,” he says. His long, suckered fingers waggle shyly.

“Mister Geedo,” Plo nods. “Having a pleasant evening, I hope.”

“Uhh, yeah, yeah – I’m not really much for parties, usually, actually. Too many crowds, y’know – but, y’know, tonight’s been nice. How about you?”

“It’s been… alright.” Plo cradles his drink in both hands. “I’m not one for big gatherings, either.”

“I feel that, man. I mean, just, just look at how many people--”

Something in the chest pocket of Gleez’s shirt goes off, chiming with a repetitious beeping. He fumbles his fingers into the pouch awkwardly and pulls out the offending item – a small squarish box with twin tapering antennae, embossed with a flashing red diode.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he mutters. “J-just my signal fob – a thing for work. I’ll put it on silent.”

The Kel Dor tips his head to one side, curiously. “I thought you said you were on vacation?”

“I mean, I was – that is, I _am_ , but, uh, mineralogists never really stop being ‘on duty’. You know how it is.”

“I can relate.”

Gleez chuckles desperately. He pockets the fob; its antennae stick up out of his pocket like a cockroach. Plo can still see the red blip through the shirt’s thin mauve fabric. “What did you say you do, actually?”

Ah yes, the other half of his reservations with the Diplomatic Corps’ cover story – the constant deception. Plo taps the rim of his glass with a finger, searching for passable lies in the crowd.

“You might call it conflict resolution,” he replies finally, lifting the glass to his mouth again.

“Oh cool,” Gleez says. “You and your friend both, or…?”

Plo hums and nods as he drinks, thus carefully avoiding the need to engage in further smalltalk.

“Neat. Uhhh – I-is he here tonight? I haven’t seen him around…”

“There,” Plo points. “In the dance circle.”

Kit is indeed still dancing – nose to nose with a Zygerrian partner, Plo realizes too late. Cold, acid envy churns his stomach suddenly, and he forces his gaze away, quietly reeling.

 _Jealousy is immaterial_ , he chides himself _. Only a knee-jerk trick of the soul. Kit’s heart is his to do with as he pleases. You’re reading too deeply into your own cover. There is no emotion, there is peace_.

“Oh, _wow_ ,” Gleez is murmuring breathlessly, eyes wide as he pushes his glasses back up his snout. “He’s – he’s _really_ good at dancing, huh?”

He allows himself one more glance, only long enough to see Kit’s head-tresses fanned out and whirling opposite the Zygerrian’s ponytail. “Yes,” he mumbles. “He is.”

“Right? Haha I mean dank farrik he looks good, I almost want to join him, I mean I would if I didn’t have two flat feet, and I mean _flat_ flat, like ‘couldn’t score 100 on Dance Dance Rebellion: Galactic Dance Off’ flat, not that I didn’t try mind you, I just, um, sorry. Babbling. I just, uh. U-uhhh. Hm.”

Gleez dips his head just as Plo lifts his. The silence between them is brittle and awkward. Plo notices the deep green flush around the cheeks of Geedo’s snout for the first time and feels an instinctual need to look somewhere else, anywhere else. Around them, the party carries on indifferently.

“So listen,” Geedo begins, hesitantly, clutching his fingers more than his glass. “Your friend---”

“His name is Kit.”

“Kit? Kit. Okay, your friend Kit – he’s, uh, he’s really cool. And I – I know we just met, and he probably doesn’t even remember me, but like… do you think it’s okay if I – y’know – try to get to know him better?”

“I… don’t see why it wouldn’t be.”

“Well, it’s just… I-I don’t mean to pry or anything, and I know it’s kind of a longshot, you know, but… he’s not, like, seeing anybody right now, is he?” Gleez cringes. And adds quickly, “Also, sidebar, do you think I have even a ghost of a chance with him? Cuz like I look at _him_ and then I have to look back at _me_ and, well---"

Ah, yes. Back to the deception. At least this question has an easy answer.

“I fear you’ve been misled,” he says mechanically. “Kit and I are actually married.”

A curious silence falls. Plo glances back to Gleez. He is completely unprepared for the poleaxed expression written on the Rodian’s face.

“Oh,” Gleez mumbles. His voice had always been small, Plo remembers, meek even. But never like this.

Another second passes before Plo can summon the will to speak. “Oh Force,” he says. “That was rude of me. I didn’t realize – I’m so ---"

“No, no, no.” Gleez’s arm comes alive limply, waving away any condolences. “ _I’m_ the one who should apologize. I didn’t realize you two were – agh, I knew something like this would happen, I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up – gah, dank farrik.” He swipes his knuckle under his eyes; the act pushes his overlong fingers under the bridge of his spectacles, bobbling them uncomfortably against his snout. He finally takes them off and tucks them in the pocket with the signal fob. “I just had to go and make an ass out of myself…”

“If I had known, I would have been more tactful,” Plo insists desperately. He doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince.

“No no, it’s – it’s fine. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. I, uh, I’m not the luckiest person in the world when it comes to romance,” Gleez murmurs. “I – I’m sorry if I came off like a weirdo, I just – on the beach, with the sensor and the guy and the Teras Kasi flip, it all just felt --- “ He chokes, swallows, forces a breath out past it. “It felt storybook, you know? And I just – my stay’s been so nice and I’d never have guessed a Kel Dor and a Nautolan would be together and I really should’ve seen it, agh, I guess I just wanted to believe I had a shot, again I’m _so_ sorry…”

Plo finds himself completely rudderless. He has ideas of what he should do, what he should say – but every option seems to carry risk, now; they come laden with some unspoken hurt that he might further inflict upon this wounded heart. He wishes Kit were here to take the wheel, to give him strength to see them through this crisis, but when he glances back over his shoulder the dance circle is emptying out even as new faces step forward to fill it. Plo Koon, Jedi Master, is on his own – and he’s flailing.

He’s just beginning to find his voice when Gleez starts to shuffle away. “I should just – I should go,” the Rodian sniffles. “I’m – I’m so sorry for all this trouble. H-have a good night—”

“Wait,” Plo says, falteringly. He steps out and takes Geedo by the arm before he can slip away. “ _Wait_ ,” he repeats, firmly. “Please.”

Gleez stares at him with wider eyes than usual. Light speckles his dark orbs, like the galaxy itself is waiting to judge him. Behind his mask, Plo’s mouth hangs open helplessly until the words arrive – and, after a short eternity, they do.

“This is my own fault. I didn’t realize you had an interest in Kit in that way, and - to be frank, I wasn’t considering your feelings when I spoke. I’m – I’m _deeply_ sorry for hurting you like this. Please believe it wasn’t my intention.”

“I—” Gleez gulps, shaking his head. “No, no. It’s okay. I believe you.”

“And just let me say,” Plo adds quickly, “with as much wisdom on these matters that I can offer – which isn’t much, despite appearances – that as much heartbreak as you’re feeling right now, that as much as I’m sure it must hurt… such pain is only temporary. And that I believe that you will heal, and move forward, and… and eventually find someone that you can be truly happy with. It may not be for a while, but – but I believe you will, someday. So – so please don’t give up on yourself. Not because of an incident like this.”

By the Force, that was choppy. And perhaps a touch too saccharine. The alcohol must be affecting his tongue.

But Gleez, at least, looks calmed. He lifts a trembling hand and puts it over Plo’s where it grips his bicep, squeezing gently. “Th-thank you, man. That – that really helps.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I mean, it’s – a little schmaltzy, you know, but – I actually do feel a little better.” He offers Plo a thin smile. “So, yeah. Definitely in my top five letdowns.”

Plo lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Good,” he says, letting his hand slip and fall out of Gleez’s grasp. “Good.”

Gleez sighs, too, patting his thigh and looking down at his toes. “So yeah,” he says, listlessly. “That was… something.”

“A-are you sure you’re…?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m good. I’m just gonna–" He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Gonna go off, have a little cry probably, and then turn in for the night. I, uh. Like I said, I’m not really one for big parties.” Shrugging, he offers another little wave and begins to backpedal. “Again, sorry to be a bummer. Hope you guys have a good night.”

In the vacuum of anything else to say, Plo offers a weak “May the Force be with you.” But Gleez Geedo has already waded into the tropical underbrush and vanished.

He looks down at his drink. It has long since ceased glowing green, and the whimsical party umbrella garnish droops sadly in its lukewarm swill. With a sigh, he dumps it out against a palm tree and resigns himself to watching the waves roll in against the sand.

By the time the night winds bring a chill to the beach, he’s already departed.


	11. long night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, i couldn't /not/ post an update on valentine's day, now could i

Kit isn’t worried when he realizes Plo is no longer on the beach. Not to imply he isn’t troubled at all – because he is, nominally, in the way one would be after temporarily misplacing a close friend. But he isn’t panicked, either. Plo Koon is a Jedi master, after all, just the same as he – even without a lightsaber, or the Force, he’s perfectly capable of getting himself back to the resort hotel under his own power – and so he thinks nothing of returning to their shared room and waiting for him there, watching the moonlight filter down over the waves.

And so neither is Plo surprised when he rounds the corner from the bedroom and finds him there, leaning against the doorframe out to the balcony with one outstretched arm and one shoulder, silhouetted against the star-flecked night sky. Moonlight catches the arc of his shoulder blade, rolling down his hanging head-tails and the valley of his spine to his waist – a pleasantly eye-catching sheen that flatters Kit Fisto’s physicality in a way he finds difficult to ignore.

In truth, they sense each other before they see each other. Kit senses frustration and guilt settling in Plo’s mind in a restless jumble, knotting and snaking in against each other like a Siniteen tangle-puzzle, legendary for its overcomplication; Plo senses a wistful disappointment.

“I take it you left the party early,” he opens, voice carefully even.

Plo shrugs listlessly from the edge of the ensuite kitchen. “It… wasn’t really for me, I’m afraid,” he replies, clasping his hands below his waist.

“That’s unfortunate. My time wasn’t much better, I’m sorry to say.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I know you were looking forward to it.”

“It’s fine,” Kit says. “Life is rarely as perfect as nostalgia would have us believe.”

“If only it were – you deserved better. And perhaps our standing with the diplomatic service wouldn’t be quite so sour,” Plo adds, musing more to himself than to the room.

The Nautolan hums and nods, half-turning, resting the curve of his spine against the doorframe and folding his arms loosely just below his chest. His deep, dark eyes fall down to Plo’s trunk; a brow quirks curiously. It takes Plo a moment to realize why.

“Oh,” he offers lamely, smoothing down the sandy-toned roughspun of his Jedi tunic. “Forgive me. I know it’s hardly conducive to our cover to be wearing our robes.”

“Only in public,” Kit replies, waving a hand. “In private, I imagine we can do whatever we please.”

The idea strikes a nerve somewhere in Plo’s chest; it plunks like a hammer on a badly-tuned valachord string and lingers, crawling, sprawling all over his back. He tries to push past it by taking a few tentative steps across the room, crossing his own arms rather more tightly.

“Within reason,” he says.

“Is wearing our own clothing no longer a reasonable thing to do?”, Kit counters, flashing a bemused smile.

“Not if we’re still trying to sell the fiction of the Ashlans, humble vacationers - who most definitely are _not_ undercover Jedi.”

“Don’t forget husbands. Because, as you know, we’re so madly in love with each other.”

The Kel Dor sighs horribly, a sound that passes harshly through his antiox respirator. “Yes, because the religious sect who famously shuns worldly attachments would know how to present the façade of romantic interest.”

“ _Some_ of us do,” Kit protests irreverently. He sidles out of the doorway, making room for Plo to join him out on the balcony.

“I suppose that’s true. After all, _you_ certainly seem to know what you’re doing. But I’m as blind as a Dorin dusk-bat when it comes to all of this.” He huffs. “I’d had a bad feeling about this sort of assignment, you know. Before we came here. A sense that I wasn’t suited for this kind of – state-mandated deception.”

Kit joins him by the railing, planting his elbows upon it. “A rather harsh assessment,” he notes, eyes fixed on Plo.

“You can’t dull a lie by wrapping it in tropical shirts and sunblock, Kit. It is, and remains, a lie. And the more lies you tell to protect the first, the longer that chain grows – the more people will be hurt by it.”

Plo sighs again, a smaller sound, as he stares down over the bay. The tide rolls in sluggishly; palm trees sway in the breeze. The beach rolls over in its sleep.

“It’s not the sort of thing the Jedi should be party to,” he finishes. “It goes against the spirit of our teachings.”

Kit nods, and Plo senses he understands where he’s coming from, what he’s trying to articulate. It’s reassuring, to know he’s being heard. “But the Republic requested it of us,” he notes.

“A Republic that’s been holding us at arm’s length since we arrived, and even before. I tell you, Kit, everything about this situation is out of place. It – it _frustrates_ me. And to have to lie to the public, to –”

Plo catches himself, takes a breath, drops his hands listlessly on the balcony railing. “I apologize, Master Fisto. It wasn’t my intention to dump my troubles onto you.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Master Plo.”

 _I very much doubt that_ , he thinks ruefully.

“Besides, I’m not unfamiliar with handling these sorts of thoughts. I _was_ trained as a Consular, you know.”

Plo almost does a full double-take. “You’re a Consular?”

“Oh, yes,” Kit replies, beaming innocently. “I’ve always been good with people - individually or as a group. Have been since the creche, if my old teachers are to be believed. This isn’t my first time helping one of our own manage their feelings, and I doubt it’ll be the last.”

“And you do this by… getting them to start talking, and then let them ramble about everything that’s been bothering them lately?”

“Oh, I find that method works magnificently, Master. There are others that work, too, but that one’s my favorite.”

“I – “ Plo blinks, swallows, looks out at the water. “Well.”

Kit is still beaming. Something about it feels smug. “Feel any better?”

“…Perhaps,” he concedes. Perhaps not by much, but… it was an improvement.

“Glad to hear it. As long as we’re on the subject, is there anything else you need to get off your chest?”

A hesitant pause. “I don’t think it’s necessary. I shouldn’t want to burden you overmuch.”

“Master Yoda counseled me once that in seeking to spare others your burdens, you’ll burden only yourself. Not in so few words, of course,” Kit adds wryly, “but their meaning was clear.”

“They… do have the ring of truth about them,” Plo murmurs. “But I’ll be fine. Really. We all have our own burdens to bear, in the end, and I wouldn’t ask anyone else to bear mine for my own sake. I only hope it can be said someday that I’ve borne my tribulations gracefully.”

There comes a silence. It’s punctuated by a gull’s lonely cry, rolling over the beach. Then, wordlessly, Kit turns to face him, reaching out and resting his fingertips against the back of Plo’s hand.

“Are you _sure_?”

Plo regards the fingers against his hand for a moment that seems, to him, too long – and, once he sweeps it out from under them, too short.

“Yes,” he says, brusquely disregarding the paradox. “I will be well. But thank you for your concern, Master Fisto.”

Kit nods, humming, in that obliquely knowing way that seemed to be endemic to all Jedi of sufficiently high stature. “Then I’ll wish you a good night’s rest, Master Plo,” he replies, turning back to watch the rolling ocean.

Plo senses the offered exit and takes it. “And I hope the same for you,” he says as he retreats indoors.

“But take care that your worries don’t become a prison, or that you carry it with you wherever you go.”

Plo turns on his heel, but Kit is still watching the water placidly. If he didn’t trust his own ears, Plo Koon would think he hadn’t spoken at all – indeed, he almost does. But he offers no reply – instead, padding quietly to the bedroom, shuffling under the covers, and closing his eyes. It will be a long sleep for him, and dreamless, but not terribly restful. The buzz of insectile wings will haunt his subconscious intermittently tonight – disruptive, but distant, muffled beneath deep rock. Always approaching, but never to arrive – at least, not yet.

It will be a long night for Kit Fisto, as well – for other reasons, few of which pertain to sleep.


End file.
